


Translucent

by imperfectkreis



Series: Degrees of Transparency [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Children, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cyprian Trevelyan walked out of the Fade, the sole survivor of the Conclave explosion, accused of killing the Divine. There are...complications. (Listed ships are background; no explicit content)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The scout tells Cassandra that the survivor is still asleep in his cell. They do not know by what magic he survived, only that he is very much alive, and largely uninjured. That he fell from the Fade. If he is a monster or saviour, they are unsure. Where the Conclave tore apart, splintered into trillions of fragments, he remained intact. He is many things, none of them fixed in eternity.

While the air is warm, the mountain thaw is very much unwelcome. Cassandra stalks across camp, her feet sinking into the damp hay they use in a vain effort to solidify the mud that sticks to their lower legs. Gravel, they need gravel instead to make the ground hard again. The muck has already caked around Cassandra’s breeches, all the way up to her knees.

Leliana meets her at the door to the cells, the keys ringing like tiny bells in her gloved hands. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line, eyes shaded by her hood. The discomfort that fills her is clear enough from the way she fidgets. Cassandra is unsure what to make of it. Though they have been sisters-in-arms for years, she would not boastfully claim to understand the Nightingale. 

“I have seen him.” Leliana spins one key along the ring, over and over. The scrape of metal on metal grows sharply tedious. “We were not told everything.”

She opens the door, letting Cassandra step into the dimly lit room. The hay is piled more thickly here, covering the stone floor, keeping it soft for the prisoner. This is to be the man accused of killing the Divine. Cassandra clenches her fist, trying to dispel the rage that rises to her throat. 

No, he must be given a trial. She will not take her instinctual anger and let it twist her into a vile thing. Little rages will turn her into a great monster, if she allows.

Another step inside and the torchlight falls across his face. The air evacuates her lungs. Cassandra drowns in her shock.

He sleeps on the ground, a mop of dark, overgrown curls framing his full cheeks. Lips slightly parted, he breathes as if distressed, as if there are nightmares all around him. He rolls onto his back, his hair falling into new patterns as his position shifts. The rough tunic he has been clothed in cannot be comfortable against his skin, it must itch.

Nine or ten years old. No more.

"A child?" Cassandra questions, her brow furrowing. 

Leliana has already stepped into place beside her. "Yes, a little boy," she sighs. "From the sigil on his tunic, he has been identified as belonging to House Trevelyan. I await the return crow from Ostwick for more information.”

The Mark on his tightly curled fist pulsates sharply, a flash of green and a burnt smell that grows and fades with each beat. He starts awake, clutching the hand to his chest before whimpering. His dark eyes fly open as the pain subsides, coming to rest on Cassandra first before darting to Leliana. He pushes with his bare feet against the floor, trying to back away without standing, whimpers of pain or fear dropping from his lips. The light of the Mark seeps through his arm, though he tries to hide it. He looks a wild thing, with thin legs poking out from under the too large tunic. In any case, there are probably not breeches to fit him. 

“Mother? Please, where is mother?” His eyes won’t settle on anything for long. For a painful moment, Cassandra worries he may have been blinded in the blast, but the longer he is awake, the more focused his eyes become. 

Cassandra sighs, not knowing truly where to begin. 

His eyes flutter to Cassandra’s chestplate, and what small calm the boy had found splinters apart. “I’m good! I’ll be good, please don’t take me away again,” he babbles, “good, good, I’m a good boy. Mother, mother.” All the while he keeps his hand pressed against his chest, his other arm curled around it. He hides the Mark.

She kneels in front of him, palms pressed to the tops of her thighs. The missive accuses him of killing the Divine, the sole survivor of the explosion. A blood thrall, perhaps? So she does not drop her guard entirely. Still, she must get him to speak sense in order to learn anything. 

“Trevelyan, what is your given name?” she asks. 

He bites his bottom lip. He is still afraid of her, but will comply. “Cyprian,” he responds. “How do you know my family?”

Cassandra smiles tersely. It is the best she can manage, but perhaps she can win him over yet. Leliana, no doubt, would be better at this, coaxing words from the mouth of a child, but she stays in the shadows. At least she has ceased twirling her keys.

“Your house crest was upon your tunic. We’ve sent word to your family.” 

She reaches out despite herself, running an ungloved hand over his soft curls. As the weight of her her hand passes over them, they bounce back up resiliently. The gesture appears to bring him some small comfort, the corners of his lips picking up.

“Cyprian, why were you at the Conclave?”

“I was with my mother. She doesn’t like leaving me behind, anymore.”

A heavy knot forms in the pit of Cassandra’s stomach. She knows immediately what this means.

“Can I see her? Is she here? She’ll be worried. I shouldn’t have wandered off. She always tells me not to. But everyone was arguing and I didn’t know…” he trails off.

Cassandra realizes too late that her lips are parted, her eyes widen, that her expression shifts. No one survived the blast, save for this child. She must tell him. This world is a cruel one. 

“Cyprian, what do you remember?”

He shakes his head, “Everyone fighting. And then I left the room...and then it’s all fuzzy.” He screws his eyes shut, shakes his head fiercely. “And now I am here.”

Standing, she dusts at the tops of her thighs, though there is nothing there to remove. “There was a great explosion. You were seen walking out of the Fade. You do not remember?”

Cyprian does not answer the question. Instead, he grips the pained hand more tightly. Whispers of ‘Mother, mother.’ He is not stupid. 

“You are the only one who survived, child. Do you know why?”

“Mother,” the pitch of his voice rises, “mama!” His loud, little voice bounces off the stone walls, against the metal bars.

Her mouth turns up dry. Only, in his anguish, she feels the hole in her own chest where the love of her parents should have sat. A missing puzzle piece, of which she has never been able to define the contours of its shape. She knows well enough, though, that Cyprian’s sorrow is jagged, raw, sharp. In that moment, it nearly cuts her as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra holds back her words, letting them die at the tip of her tongue, their last gasp of life a small sound in her throat that sounds quite cross. In reality, she is only frustrated. She does know how to speak to this child, how to make him understand the depth of the wretched thing of which he is accused. There are those who will care little that he is so young and will still call him murderer. Trite ways to absolve him of suspicion race through her mind. None of them seem adequate. The Chantry will want a trial, they always do. Usually with good reason. But in this case...

Cyprian’s small, quick footsteps trail behind her. For each step she takes, he needs two, maybe two and a half. Once she becomes accustomed to the rhythm of his gait, she corrects herself, slowing down so he may catch up.

The breeches they found for him tie with rope at the waist, the legs rolled up at the ankles. There is nothing that can be done now, but the garment is all wrong. Leliana at least managed to recover the child’s own boots. He could not make the trip barefoot.

Child or not, he must be brought to the Breach. Solas suspects the Mark on his hand, Fade-green, like nightmares, dreams, and sick, may function as a key. Time elapses, turns over, and Cassandra begins to believe as well, because when the sky shrieks, so does Cyprian. 

“I am taking you there,” she gestures to the wound.

Cyprian looks up, his curls falling back when he tilts his head. The haircut is quite impractical, long and loose. “Why?”

“To see if you can heal it.” Cassandra does not raise false hope within herself. 

The Breach bleeds demons while tears well at the corners of Cyprian’s amber eyes. He is perhaps stronger than she had thought.

“Stay close to me.” She draws her sword before gesturing to the attending soldier to open the gate. “There will be demons.”

She pushes him as hard as she dares, keeping alert to his heavy breathing as they dash across the melting snow, two and a half steps for Cyprian, one for herself. But he keeps pace. The Breach flashes and so does he. So bright, so corrupt that Cassandra can see him without turning around. A nova of green, a cry he won’t give. 

Adept enough at fighting demons, Cassandra may make short work of the first few waves, and she does. But she is only human, less fragile than others of her kind, but still skin and bone and blood. Her arms may grow tired, her feet too. But there will be time enough for weakness tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. She has been telling herself there will be time enough to rest for the last twenty years. 

The bridge gives way beneath her feet, stone and wood coming apart as if it were parchment with ill fitted fibers, the bindings loose and fragile. She turns to reach for Cyprian, but as the debris fly up, she loses sight of him. 

Landing hard on her chest, her vision blurs for a moment, blood rushing around her body, trying to compensate for the impact. When she breathes in, she can see again. The Shade approaches, a thick mucus, sticking to the earth dredged up as it slowly melts the snow beneath its trail. 

Cassandra hears the thud of Cyprian’s fall behind her, the smashing of wooden boxes that break his fall. And then, he is silent. The Shade must come first. Planting her feet, she draws the demon to her, rather than reaching out to it. She calls to it, tempts it in a way she may never be tempted. It slides and strikes at her already raised shield. She strikes and holds steady, letting it fall apart on her blade.

“Look out!” Cyprian calls from behind her.

As she turns, a flash of fire passes her cheek before curling behind an outcropping of rock. Cassandra can only just see the top of the second Shade. But she hears it as it burns, as it falls away into nothingness. 

First she checks that the demon is dead. Second she turns to Cyprian, trembling before the wreckage of crates and fallen stone, his un-Marked hand still stretched before him, ready to cast. 

“I’m sorry!” He takes a step back as Cassandra steps towards him. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know if you saw the demon.” Drawing his hand back, he looks as though he might run. If he is smart, he will not.

Cassandra’s lip curls, “You are a mage?”

Cyprian’s eyes widen, but he provides no answer.

“Did you know you are a mage?” 

He is young enough that this may have well been the first sign of his magic. 

The word is little, “Yes.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrow. “Not again, or I will stop you. Do you know who I am?”

“Templar,” he answers.

“No,” she snarls, “Seeker.”

“I won’t do it again.” He won’t meet her eyes either.

Perhaps her treatment of him on this matter is unnecessarily cruel, but under the circumstances, she can think of no better alternative. He is a young, untrained, un-Harrowed mage surrounded by demons, already infected by a magic she has never seen before.

Where before she believed it impossible Cyprian was involved in the murder of the Divine, now she wonders. There would be no reason for a child to be at the Conclave, much less a mage one. At times he appears broken, wrecked by his mother’s death. At others, perfectly composed. She cannot make sense of him.

“Walk at my side, Cyprian. And do not cast. I will drain you if I must.” 

He falls into step beside her.

"I can't control this one," he holds out the Marked hand, drawing it back quickly when Cassandra turns. She has frightened him once, now twice, perhaps for the best. "It's not mine."

"No, it is not."

"I do not like it," yet still he clutches the hand to his chest.

Cassandra sighs.

Up ahead Varric and Solas hold back the demons, but they will not last on their own. Not with they way the Shades inch forward, not with the way the Rage demon looms, slicking fire and ash along the thick layer of mud. They need her.

“Cyprian, wait here. Do nothing.” She waits until he nods firmly before dashing ahead. 

Calling the monsters to her, she distracts the demons from the others, coaxing and calling, the only seduction at which she has ever been adept. As they turn away from the more fragile Solas and Varric, she can breathe a bit easier. Electricity flickers down their semi-material forms, sparking from root to tip before dissipating along the mucky ground. She calls again, lest they turn to the mage, strikes at them harshly for attention rather than damage. As they are defeated, one by one their flickering remnants pull towards the rift above the battlefield. Small, weak, dim, the rift swallows back up the very demons it once cried.

“Seeker, you said you would bring the survivor?” Solas jogs towards her. The front of his robes are caked in drying mud. 

Varric says nothing, kicking his boots, trying to unearth crossbow bolts left behind when the demons vanished. 

“Yes.” She sheathes her sword. “Cyprian, come.”

The boy approaches. Cassandra keeps her eyes locked on him. With the rift so close, she fears possession. Whatever training he received with his powers could not have amounted to much. Maker, she doesn’t know for certain if he received training at all. It is not unheard of for noble families to shelter their mage-children. Or, perhaps, he kept his affliction secret from his family. 

“A boy? Interesting,” Solas taps a long finger against his lips.

Grabbing at Cyprian’s hand, Solas raises it to the rift. The Mark sputters to life, brighter, harsher than the actual tear. Cyprian panics, trying to pull away.

“No! No it hurts!” But he is too small, and Solas too strong. Cassandra does not miss the way Solas’ face is blank, expressionless, as he forces the Mark to work on the rift. 

Little by little, the wound mends, stitches back together like a competent healing spell. Cyprian wears himself out, flailing until his knees bend. Solas keeps him upright by his left arm, prevents him from turning away. When the rift closes completely, he releases Cyprian’s arm, allowing him to collapse to the floor. 

With a gentleness in great contrast to the scene which just transpired, Solas kneels by Cyprian’s crumpled form. He smiles and tells the boy he did well, so well. That he is special, important. Like no one Solas has ever seen. 

Behind the pair, Varric’s face is soft, concerned. “No one will ever believe this story, no matter where it leads us.”


	3. Chapter 3

Cullen tells his women and men to hold their line. To keep their shields locked together best they can to push back the waves of demons as they fall to the ground, choking, infecting, taking root, and inhabiting this world that does not belong to them. As long as he lives, Cullen will not let Thedas wither and die. He will not fail again, having waited too long already to defend the good in this world. The really, truly good, and not merely the convenient. 

But he sees the way the troops’ expressions drop as the onslaught refuses to cease, how they tremble with exhaustion even when the pulse of the Breach dims for a moment, allowing them the shortest interval to breathe. It will grow bright again. They must fight, again. 

It is imperative that he devises a new strategy. As his soldiers die, time winds down. As they stand, they march closer to demise. They are not equipped for this battle. How could they have been? The way the very reality around them turns hostile. How the sky spews sick.

Balling his hands into fists, his mind races for new solutions. Something, anything to cut this endless band of time, to let it snap back into a manageable unit instead of infinite war.

“Cullen!”

Cassandra arrives, along with Varric and Solas at her heels. Behind them, a boy breathing heavily, pressing one hand to his chest, taking in big gulps of air. His eyes are wide and bright. When the Breach spikes in brightness, so does his hand, radiating light. So vivid it makes Cullen’s stomach churn. 

It is only the stress, he tells himself, swallowing down his sickness. This boy must be the Survivor, with his thick curls and tiny hands. Surprising, but no more so than anything else he has seen today.

“Seeker.” Under normal circumstances, he would offer Cassandra his hand. But he cannot tear his eyes from the Survivor, the way he falls to his knees, keeps his cries back. When the Breach dims, so does he. The boy falls silent.

“He can close the smaller rifts with the Mark on his hand,” Cassandra begins. “We have already seen it. We must try to seal the Breach as well.”

Cullen’s eyes finally leave the lump on the snow where the boy has curled up his tired body. “Is he able?”

“We will carry him if we must. There is no other choice.” Her teeth grit together. Cullen nearly feels her anxiety crushing against his skin. “We must cut a path.”

He nods, “Of course.” Unsure, but he reveals nothing of the sort. His persistent weakness accomplishes nothing. “We will get him there.”

For a long moment they stand together in silence, the crash of battle behind them, echoing from stone broken into pieces, the barest shells of walls still standing. The boy pushes himself up to his feet without prompting.

"I don't know what's happening," he says, looking to Cullen as if someone may finally have the answers he needs. But Cullen does not.

He takes a step towards the boy, glad enough that he does not flinch. "What is your name?"

"Cyprian Trevelyan."

“I’m Cullen.” Recognizing the name from the Marches nobility, Cullen tries a little comfort. "Do you like the winters at Ostwick?"

Cyprian turns his head away. "I have been inside the Circle for a long time."

Which is worse? Silence or acknowledgement? Cullen is unsure. "Can you walk?"

Cyprian nods.

"Can you run?"

"Yes, Templar."

Cullen cannot help but recoil at the title. Is he so very obvious, even out of the trappings of a uniform that no longer fits? So many years he spent inside of it, allowing the metal and hide to break his bones and warp his body. And now, even a child can recognize him as such on first glance.

“No, Cyprian, not any longer.”

There is the faint passing of an almost-smile. “You all say you are not Templars. But you smell of lyrium.”

Cullen shakes his head. “I was once, but not now.”

“When you are finished with me, what then?” 

The question seems wholly irrelevant, given present circumstance.

“To the Breach.” Firmly, he grabs Cyprian’s arm. He must be kept close, out of danger. “Cassandra, will you lead? I will shield Cyprian.”

Cassandra nods sharply before gesturing to Solas and Varric to follow her. They may cut the path clear as Cullen’s forces cull the hoard ahead. He barks orders above the unceasing din of strikings against steel. “Move, move, clear the way!”

He hears low thuds as well, of bodies crumpling to the ground, their blood syphoning from their bodies, seeping into the soil. For centuries men and women have died upon this mountain, but Cullen cannot help but feel if they fail today, the sacrifice will stop. But it will cease in the most terrible of ways.

As they run through the tunnel of demons, the little mage at his side remains silent, save for his heavy breathing. His fists stay clenched, close against his body. And when Cullen turns, just for a moment, to look at the child, Cyprian’s eyes are wide open. So clear and so bright, he nearly forgets where they are.

“He must open this rift if we are to access the Breach.” Solas says with a definitiveness that brings Cullen some small comfort. Better than trying to launch Cyprian into the sky. 

A demon falls upon them from the wound above. Cullen is quick enough to draw his sword, angling it just so that the Shade impales on the edge, posing no risk. With a stroke of his arm, Cullen flings the Shade away. Cyprian remains tucked under his shield, hunched over as to fit. 

“You must do this,” Cullen tells him. “You must save us.” He cannot say for certain he believes his own words. But he need not. Cyprian must, but it is irrelevant if Cullen believes.

He believes in the Maker. And he believes in the goodness of others. But it has been a long time since Cullen has believed his own words, moldy and hard with regret. 

“I will.” Cyprian runs from under Cullen’s protection towards the sliver of the rift. Holding his hand out, the beacon brilliant. While the hand holds steady, his thin arm trembles. The vibration travels to his torso next, down to his boots. Cyprian shakes with the power of the magic at his hand. Cullen’s heart drops into his chest. 

A young, Unharrowed mage, surrounded by demons. He cannot stay back, darting towards Cyprian before anything can go wrong. The rift unfurls, a thread of green light coming unraveled. From inside the Fade, Cullen can hear voices long gone. Sweet, gentle, soothing. A promise never kept. There was never any way to keep it. His failures between the two planes of existence. 

He grabs Cyprian before his head can hit the ground, bundling up and tearing him from the field that fills with Shades first, then greater demons. Cassandra has already stepped forward, pulling the Pride demon towards her. Varric’s first bolt pierces the tough, gray hide of the monster, but its melody is repeated by soldiers’ arrows. 

Cyprian’s eyes are open, but distant, unfocused. To close the Breach, must he be conscious? But first, he must get Cyprian out of danger, where his presence will not impede the others in felling the demons that still choke the open rupture. 

When Cyprian does blink, it’s a relief. His eyes twist shut, then open again. “The rift wanted me to climb inside.”

Cullen breathes with relief. “A demon, testing you.”

“Yes.” Cyprian looks away, over to where Pride falters, Cassandra holding her blade forward so as it staggers, it will fall upon it. “Of course, a demon.” 

He sits up, reaching his hand towards the rift. The green binds the Mark to the tear. Cullen watches as the air begins to stitch, as Cyprian trembles. He will not let the boy fall, or fail. The air crackles, it boils. Cullen can smell the burning over and above the stench of demon, the sour smell of the Fade folding itself into their world. 

Cyprian does not fall, because when he loses control of his body, Cullen is ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really want to thank everyone who is taking the time to read this, leaving comments and kudos! I'm really excited about this series. I know it's a little slow moving at the moment, but it will pick up in the next chapters. 
> 
> Also! I have a [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com) which often has little prompts and thoughts and such.


	4. Chapter 4

Leliana's birds bring her countless missives from her scattered agents. Scraps of parchment dotted with black ink drawn from many disparate hands. She has become an expert in reading both finely rendered etchings of legible text and jagged, harsh scrawl. What is more, she can conjure the words that nest between the lines, those observations not so easily spoken. There is an alchemy to spycraft. And Leliana knows each tincture in measure.

The little Herald still sleeps, confined to his own cottage, a sweet elven girl to watch over his slumber. Leliana hand-picked her to be gentle, to be kind. It has been four days since his soft hands and harsh, unknown magic attempted to close the Breach. He has not stirred in that time. But his lungs flutter, his heart beats. His body is warm and so he lives. That is enough, for now.

Leliana's birds have sung, brought her two letters from the boy's family. The first is in a precise, masculine hand, stamped with the seal of House Trevelyan. The words are chipped into the parchment sharply. They almost rip through the page. She reads, the corners of her lips turned down.

What good news, Bann Trevelyan writes, that his grandson would be chosen by the Maker. The Herald of Andraste, of all things to call the boy. Blessed, really. What pride he will bring the Maker. They will mourn the loss of his departed mother, of course. The mention of Cyprian’s mother seems almost an afterthought, something to be tossed away. Disposed of. The letter says little else, virtually nothing of Cyprian’s life before the Conclave. It is useless in its platitudes. It ends with a promise to send gold, that the Trevelyans will always support the efforts of the Chantry, and that the Bann is certain his grandson is in excellent care.

They do not want him back. Plain enough, they never wanted him in the first place. But why?

The second letter is in a looping cursive, beautiful shapes, dips, and curves. It is lovely to look at, beyond what content it may contain. But the paper itself is of a low quality, the edges torn, as if someone rubbed them between their fingers many times. This is the unofficial account. This is what Leliana needs.

_Dear Sister Leliana,_

_I hope this letter reaches you. My father forbade me to write. He wishes for his account to be the only one of record. But I cannot let Cyprian suffer because of my father’s desire to save face. Much of this I know only through my sister’s letters, as I was confined to the Ostwick Circle until quite recently._

_May I only apologize that my letter is so brief, that I do not know more._

_Cyprian is the only child of my elder sister. She never disclosed the name of his father. She may have not known it. When she was younger, she was rather free-spirited. Cyprian may be a bastard, but she would not be parted from him, and her reputation was already a bit in tatters. As heir to our House, there were still men eager to marry her, but she would have none of them._

_At the age of six, Cyprian showed signs of magic. Well, he caught fire to his grandfather’s hair during an argument with my sister. He was sent to Kinloch Hold in Ferelden, as the Chantry tries to keep mages of the same family separate. I would have been transferred in his place, had I been given the option._

_When the rebellion reached Kinloch, my sister rushed to retrieve her son. She told me she would not let him out of her sight again. Not for the Chantry, or the Templars, or the Maker in whom she had never believed. That is why he was at the Conclave. An errand for my father, to watch over the interests of our House._

_I know he loves salts more than sweets. And my sister was teaching him to ride now that he was home. He should be quite adept at his letters. He sleeps with a stuffed nug still. Though I suppose that is gone. I suppose all of his things are gone._

_Please take care of him. I do not think anyone could love him as fiercely as his mother did. But, please, care for him._

_Send him my love, at least,_

_Cassia Trevelyan_

At the bottom of the letter, patches where the parchment curls, just slightly, bubbling up as if it were once wet. Tears, Leliana realizes. A young woman crying over the fate of her nephew so far flown from her hands.

Leliana goes to Cullen first, crossing Haven with fleet feet. Snow falls against her hood, a flake reaching to her nose, melting there nearly as soon as it hits skin. It is only the altitude that makes the precipitation turn to ice. It is too warm to stick.

Cullen trains what soldiers remain, lining them up, prescribing them drills. So many were lost at the Breach in order for Cyprian to come close enough to the tear. He stopped the blistering spread, but the wound is not yet fully knit. They all know they must try again. With more power, more support. But when that day will come, they are, at present, unsure.

Leliana places a gloved hand on Cullen’s arm to draw his attention away from the soldiers. His mouth sets in a thin line.

“Leliana?”

She pushes back her hood, letting the snow fall into her hair. “I received word from Ostwick. About Cyprian.”

“And?” he questions.

“They will not ask for his custody. His grandfather seems rather pleased that he is gone. No one wishes to be responsible for him, now that his mother is dead.”

“And his father?” Cullen’s eyes narrow.

“They do not know who he is. But, I only wished to tell you that he did spend three years in the Circle, at Kinloch, before the Rebellions. And from his behavior at the Breach,” she hesitates. “I only think it best you keep your distance for now. Until he has become more accustomed to Haven. You may make him nervous.”

Cullen sighs, pushing back the hair from his forehead. “I am a Templar no longer.”

“And yet, he identified you as such. Of course he did. Moreover, he perhaps associates your accent only with those of the Circle, rather than those of his home.” She has a plan. She always has plans, reading people like books as she can. “I will be the first to see him when he wakes.”

“If he wakes,” Cullen corrects.

“He will. He is the Maker’s chosen, after all.” And Leliana believes her words. She once thought herself chosen for less than what has been bestowed upon Cyprian. Now her calling is to provide for his safety, his care as well. The one request made of his aunt.

Cullen does not look happy, his palm pressing firmly into the pommel of his blade. But he nods, tells Leliana he will comply with what she thinks is best.

Leliana returns to her tent, intent to see Cassandra next, to share what she has learned. But first she rifles through her things, packed away to be carted from place to place. A chest of sentimental things. Pressed flowers, knitted blankets, chunks of wood carved at camps along the roads she traveled during the Blight. Her things date from many different lives, as she has been many different women. She finds what she is searching for, faded and with pink thread beginning to fray from years of love. But its ears still stay upright, and its black-glass eyes shine.

It is not Cyprian’s. It is hers. But she hopes it may bring him some small measure of comfort. Elfroot still lingers in the stuffing, she can smell it when she presses her nose to the soft belly of carnation-pink fabric.

The elf set to watch over Cyprian starts when Leliana enters the cottage. She tells her not to worry, she will be gone in a moment. Tucking the stuffed nug next to Cyprian, she cannot help but run a hand over his hair. He does not stir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, thank you guys for how much support you've shown for my flight of fancy here. I hope you continue to enjoy the story! I think Josephine's chapter will be next.


	5. Chapter 5

Josephine has two hands. By which she always means two scripts, two voices. One is conjured for diplomacy, the other for intimacy. As she grows older, she uses the second song less and less, until it dries up, cracking at the core, splintering down the sides. She sees her siblings with less frequency, her parents, almost not at all. Antiva seems so far away. Not in distance, but in experience. They exchange letters, of course they exchange letters, but she writes them as a diplomat would, not a daughter.

While she can speak of her home in vivid detail, her voice rising and falling like tides against the shore, they are images from the picture book of her childhood. The properly crafted and framed representation feels more real than the soil and sea.

When she accepts the position offered by the newly established Inquisition, she throws herself at the opportunity wholeheartedly, looking for a new challenge, new life. She packs her things into pretty wooden boxes, with carved, inset lids. She folds her garments neatly, wraps fragile things in sturdy paper so they will not break in transit. Upon reaching Haven, she unpacks enough to curate the correct atmosphere in her office. Everything else remains out of sight. Safe.

The Little Herald runs about the commandeered Chantry with great delight. His voice, in happiness and frustration both, bounces off the walls. Josephine works through the racket he rouses, drafting correspondence and dissecting time-forgotten treaties. Promises made to an order with the same name, different bodies filling different armor. 

Cassandra has gone to the Hinterlands to meet with Mother Giselle. A much needed ally. Cyprian begged and cried to go with her, but it was not practical. Instead, he terrorizes Haven.

"Lord Trevelyan," Josephine calls from the open door frame into the deserted belly of the Chantry. She moves to find him, following his unceasing noise.

He has knocked over all manner of things in the makeshift War Room. She could have sworn the room was locked before Cassandra departed twelve days ago. The metal markers used to control the massive map are scattered about the floor, finely fashioned pieces chipped off. She can see the scrapes against the stone walls where he has thrown them. A graveyard of empires at Cyprian's feet.

"I'm not a lord," he corrects, keeping his eyes at the floor. "Mages cannot be lords." He pauses. "And I am illegitimate." His pronunciation of the word is perfect, each syllable in its place, but empty. An insult with no meaning beyond the vibrations at his throat and tongue. She is certain he does not know the particularities of the epithet.

Josephine parts her lips to speak, but then thinks better of it. Of course, he is right. She is wrong.

"Help me pick up the pieces, Cyprian."

To that he acquiesces, clambering down onto his hands and knees to gather up the metal trinkets in the hollow pocket he makes out of his loose tunic. Solas requested child-sized robes for the boy. Cullen insists he should only wear them when under direct tutoring. There is to be no amplification of his magic outside of his lessons. For the most part, Josephine stays out of meddling in the boy's magic-education. It is a matter with which she has no experience. She has, however, sent away for tutors in writing and mathematics. They cannot arrive soon enough to occupy Cyprian's time. To keep him busy and out of sight.

Cyprian rubs at his eyes as if he is quite tired, whereas before he was a bowstring perpetually growing taut, releasing, repeating. 

"Lady Josephine," he cannot pronounce Montilyet, "I know I had to go to the Circle because I am 'special,' a mage. And I know mages are locked away because we are bad. But." One by one, he picks the markers from his tunic, placing them back onto the War Table. "Now everyone says I'm 'special' but in a good way. Because of this." He holds up the Marked hand. It pulses, fades. In its brilliance, Cyprian winces.

Josephine has not looked at the Mark very closely. Indeed, she has not looked at the Herald very closely at all. A plain boy, with a head of dark curls, amber eyes, and a bit of a hook to his nose. Bann Trevelyan married the daughter of a Rivaini diplomat, but Cyprian is fair. Not as Cassandra or Cullen, but more so than Josephine. He stands with his back straight and the Mark outstretched. Tired, but not afraid. At least not today.

"Did Cassandra leave me behind because I am bad?" he asks with such sincerity Josephine nearly forgets to provide an answer suitable for a child, one he will understand, which will not demoralize him. 

"It is a long journey. And there is no need for us to put you in danger." She runs her hand over his hair, smoothing it down. Paying her no mind, he finishes his task of resetting each marker. "You will see her again, when she returns."

There is one marker he dwells on, turns it over in his hand and scrutinizes. "This one is me?"

Josephine plucks the statuette from his hands to better look at the piece. It is nothing but a hand, dismembered from the rest of the body, held aloft to the sky, but inside the Chantry, she supposes it can only reach for the ceiling. 

"Yes, it is, Cyprian." Josephine places it back at Haven, next to the one that represents her, a rolled parchment, sealed from prying eyes. 

Cyprian frowns, but says nothing.

Cullen appears at the door, running his fingers through his hair. "I apologize for disturbing you." He looks to Josephine first, then Cyprian. "Scout Harding has returned from the Hinterlands with Mother Giselle."

Josephine inspects her attire smoothing out wrinkles that are not there. Habit, really. She is already sure she is more than presentable to meet with the Mother.

"There is another request from Cassandra as well," Cullen continues. "Cyprian, you will return with Scout Harding to the Hinterlands. Cassandra asked for you."

Cyprian does not turn from the table, does not even acknowledge Cullen's mention of his name. But the Mark at his hand spikes. It gives off a curious smell, sour, but as if the air itself burns. She covers her nose. Cullen appears unaffected. 

Keeping his eyes down, Cyprian turns on his heels, marches past Cullen in the open doorway, who does not waver. 

"I will see to it someone packs his supplies," Cullen offers.

Josephine is only glad that the child has left the room. That there are no more questions where she can provide only the most obscure of answers, saying nothing but filling the air with pretty sounds. A lullaby for a child who won't sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

It is just past dusk when Scout Harding arrives at the farmstead camp, Cyprian on a second little dappled pony beside hers. Harding assures Cassandra that the forces designated to build the watchtowers for Master Dennet are to follow. Supplies have already been secured as well. Cassandra must take Harding's report with the child clinging to her like pollen in her lungs, powdery and choking.

Cyprian's thin arms fold around her torso, gripping tightly to her back. Cassandra worries that the sharp folds of her Seeker's armor will cut against his thin robes. But, in his throat, a small sob swearing that he is sorry, that cuts her. He is so sorry, please don't leave him behind again. She runs her hand over the crown of his head, listening to Harding rather than to the waterfall of apologies with no referent. 

"He missed you a great deal, Inquisitor," Harding smiles softly, patting Cyprian's wet cheek before she departs for her own tent to wash and change.

Cassandra does not have the time to correct her. It is a strange, foregone conclusion that she will take the title when it is proper. Josephine believes they should wait until the order has greater visibility, until the news will travel with greater consequence, like a virus across Thedas. This is the first time Cassandra has been addressed by the title that is not-yet hers. She is not sure she likes it.

She peels Cyprian away, crouching down to meet his clouded face. The freshly built fire turns his amber eyes to orange. They remind her of Rage, that slick, cloying bundle of ooze and flame. As a child she felt Rage at her own impotence as well, directed at that cage of noble-girlhood she never wanted. But she does not detect a demon in the boy, only refracted light. She rubs her thumb against his forehead.

"I left you at Haven because we did not need you until now. Your safety is of vital importance to the Inquisition," she explains.

He wipes his nose on the sleeve of his robes. "And now?"

Cassandra stands. "There is a rift on the other side of that cliff." She points into the semi-darkness. "We are going to clear the demons, then you will seal it with the Mark upon your hand. The horsemaster wishes it as a favor."

His mouth sets into a thin line. At the very least, he nods in understanding. Cassandra sighs, placing her hand at his shoulder. 

"Come, you must be tired. I've placed a second cot in my tent for you."

That appears to lift at least some of the weight from Cyprian's narrow shoulders. He follows obediently. Though it is not late, he is indeed tired, drifting off in a matter of minutes. Though she has no reason to dawdle in the tent, Cassandra busies herself until she is certain he is at peace.

\--

Despair screeches with such shattering intensity that Cassandra feels it in her marrow. It makes the soft center of her bones brittle in agony. But she cannot falter, show weakness. So she keeps her shield up, her sword drawn. She shrieks back at the demon, summoning it to her, wrapping it in the chains of her rage and drawing it close, like a dance partner, like a lover. Its exposed, rotted teeth mock-smile back at her, no lips to seal off its mouth. She bares her teeth back, accustomed to corpses.

When the screams end, the frost begins, creeping along her skin. The blast of ice pricks at the hairs on her arms, makes them stand straight, at attention. Cassandra holds as Despair bounces in place against her binding chains, filled with Varric's arrows, shot through with Solas' fire. The ice is at her arms, but there are flames at the back of her neck as the bolts of heat fly by. It bakes the back of her chest piece, cooking her inside her own armor.

But she does not falter, seducing the demon with her own powers, her hard fought-for skill. And as it breaks down into glittering fragments, she can finally breathe again. The boom of the rift's vulnerably is the sweetest sound she has heard in the long minutes of battle.

She calls to the Herald, "Cyprian! Now!"

The boy darts out from his hiding place behind a short outcropping of moss covered rock. His Marked hand leads, the rest of his body follows. As he approaches the rift, the hand strobes brighter and brighter, until its sour-green color is all Cassandra can see. Cyprian is silent this time as the tear stitches together. The hole beats like a heart, like it may rip open the threads of magic Cyprian uses to mend it. But it does not burst. Instead it closes, thuds low and hollow before vanishing.

Cyprian falls to his knees, breathing heavy, clutching his un-Marked right hand to his chest as he catches his breath. Cassandra runs to him. As she arrives, Cyprian looks up, his eyes glassy. 

"Is it supposed to hurt?" he asks.

She shakes her head. It's not even supposed to _be_.

\--

Josephine sends a missive that they are to depart directly to Val Royeaux. The ambassador has already sent appropriate clothing ahead to the capital for them each to wear. Solas should return to Haven, but Cassandra, Varric, and Cyprian are to be presented to the Chantry Mothers. Josephine has worked little miracles to assure their audience.

Cassandra does not like it one bit, even if she may see some of the logic in it. Cyprian must go, despite the danger, to act as a beacon. They call him Herald. They call him worse things. 

She folds the letter and instructs Solas to leave at first light tomorrow for Haven. She tells Cyprian to where they are headed. He looks excited, thanks her for being permitted to come. She pats his shoulder and reminds him he must be alert, there are those who wish him harm. 

"There always have been!" he says with such cheer that Cassandra mistakes the words for lighthearted.

\--

Along the road Cyprian speaks of his mother, asks Cassandra if she liked her. Plainly, she states that she did not know the late Lady Trevelyan. Unfazed, Cyprian states that Cassandra would have liked her, if she had known her.

Varric laughs, saying the boy is already very good at stories, only he doesn't have the vocabulary yet to make his tales dance. But he is clever. Very clever. 

From atop his pony, Cyprian smiles. "Mother liked dwarves, she said they were cleverer than humans."

"See what I mean, Lady Seeker?" Varric looks self-satisfied.

Cassandra scoffs, but in truth, she is happy.


	7. Chapter 7

Varric starts telling a story. It is the story of a not-so-beautiful woman. One with dark hair that falls in her face, it covers the pockmarks on her forehead, and light eyes, raindrops falling on ice, many inches thick. And once, a long time ago, this not-so-beautiful, but very smart, very loyal woman, wanted to become a dragon. Everyone thought it was an awfully silly notion. A woman cannot become a dragon, preposterous! But, in the warmth of the tavern fire, surrounded by friends, she exclaimed, “No! Really! Just watch me! I will be a dragon one day.”

And she went from apostate to apostate, asking each and every one of them how she might become a dragon. What words or herbs or hand gesture she needed to break her bones and reset them to conjure herself as a beast. See, she was an apostate too, in a dangerous city. But she never walked as if she were afraid. Every apostate she asked said the same thing. “A woman cannot become a dragon.”

But, in her heart, she knew that she was true. Once she set her heart upon her task, she could not be dissuaded. 

So this second time, she went from door to door with an offering. She smeared red ocher over the bridge of her nose, it brought out the glass of her eyes. And in her hands she held trinkets, little woven gifts for each apostate. “Please, Serah! You may not know the whole spell, but tell me the piece, the fraction that you know, so that I may one day become a dragon.”

The apostates of the city still thought she was quite daft. But this time, when she came to their doors, they told her a lie. Just a little one. A little lie never hurt anyone. After all, she was no longer asking for a complete enchantment, just a word, or a pinch of this or that, a little something. So they whispered lies as silly as they thought her dreams. And for each lie she accepted, she gave the responsible apostate a trinket.

Finally, she came to the last apostate’s door. That of the healer. He took care of all the sick children, the mothers, the fathers, the sons and daughters, every person cast aside in this city that was at once too massive and too confining. She came to this apostate and asked him too for a piece of magic, anything he knew, so she might become a dragon.

And for the first time, someone didn’t laugh at her, someone didn’t tell her lies. At least not then, though the healer would lie to her later. That’s not important right now. But the healer asked her:

“Why do you want to be a dragon?”

And she replied:

“So I may be beautiful. So I may be feared. But most of all, because I want to be.”

And the healer smiled, told her he knew of no such magic. But she was already beautiful, already feared, and he would love her, no matter who she wanted to be. 

Varric tells this story to Cyprian, polished up, clean, varnished. It's a fairy tale built from scraps suitable for a child. It is not what happened at Kirkwall. He tells this story in all its inaccuracy so that the boy listens with rapt attention to Varric’s safe enough words while Cassandra quarrels with the Lord Seeker. He keeps Cyprian’s back to the Chantry Mother, keeps his head from turning when the Lord Seeker orders his man to shut her up. Varric flinches when he strikes her, because he can see, but Cyprian doesn’t ask any questions. Other than if the not-so-beautiful woman ever became a dragon.

“That’s a story for another time.”

Cassandra joins them, her cheeks flushed with anger, rising up the bridge of her nose and flaring across her forehead too. She says that Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man she remembers. Varric quips back that he’d just as soon forget him altogether.

\--

Madame de Fer’s party is exquisite, if a bit formal for Varric’s tastes. But they will be in and out soon enough. Well, after a couple of rounds of nice wine and succulent hors d'oeuvres. Varric gestures to the serving staff to lower the silver plates so that they are eye-level for Cyprian, letting the boy select first which delicacy he would like to sample. They then raise the plate a few inches higher for Varric to appraise his choices.

Cyprian smiles as he bites down onto a small sausage, wrapped in flaky pastry. A bit of the wrapping clings to the side of his cheek. With his mouth still full, he asks Varric if he may have another. They are just so good.

“Hold up, kiddo,” he wipes at Cyprian’s cheek, dusting away the pastry flake with the corner of his tunic sleeve, our hostess is coming.

First Enchanter Vivienne walks alongside Cassandra. They walk arm in arm, though Vivienne appears far more relaxed than the seeker. They both look quite the part, a Queen with her Knight, though either woman could play both roles, Varric is certain. It is all a matter of casting. 

The color drains from Cassandra’s lips when she is nervous. Now is no exception. 

“Cyprian.”

When Cassandra speaks, the boy stands a little bit taller. And his eyes get bright too.

“This is First Enchanter Vivienne, she wishes to meet you.”

Vivienne smiles with such brightness, Varric honestly cannot reckon if it is truthful or not. She’s a woman who keeps her lies in the lines of her face, nestled in beside truths. Best to keep both close, stir them all up until it’s downright impossible to tell which is which. From the alloy of sincerity and falsehood she crafts her own sort of armor. Hard and stunning. 

“What a darling child.” She crouches down, with no mind to her robes pooling against the marble floor, to pat Cyprian on the cheek. “Seeker Pentaghast tells me you are a mage, Herald?”

“My name is Cyprian.”

She tilts her head, rubbing her thumb against his cheek before standing. “Of course, you are Cyprian Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste. You will do great things. I am sure of it.”

“First Enchanter Vivienne is going to join the Inquisition,” Cassandra interrupts. Really, she is doing the best she can manage in such formal quarters. She would say she was never made for this, standing in her plate armor in a room full of dresses. Varric still thinks she fits the scene quite perfectly. 

“Cyprian, how long were you at Kinloch Hold?” Vivienne asks.

“Three years, ma’am.” 

“Comparing their standards to those of the Spire, he has had perhaps six months of suitable training. I will not be able to tell for certain until I can see with my own eyes his capabilities. I look forward to it.”

Varric feels a little queasy, not for himself, but for Solas, who, until now apparently, was providing for Cyprian’s training. This is going to be good. And awful. Both good and awful. And maybe with some explosions. 

Or maybe the egg tart just isn’t sitting well in his stomach next to all that wine.


	8. Chapter 8

He appears a happy child, trotting behind Seeker Pentaghast with all the enthusiasm of an ill-trained puppy. Talking frequently with raised volume, adults seldom listen. She has seen as much across Circles. But Seeker Pentaghast surprises Vivienne with her careful responses to Cyprian's enthusiastic nonsense. All along, she has been attentive.

When Cyprian does settle it is late in the evening. Leaning against Cassandra at the fireside, hands curled in his fine robes, he begins sparking.

She cannot fathom how that apostate elf, Solas, missed it, the way Cyprian's magic bubbles in his sleep, like boiling water in a too-small iron pot. Certainly, Solas was too preoccupied with his Fade games. Yes, a clever trick it is, one that shows great power. Under different circumstances, Vivienne may have been impressed. But such tasks are entirely unsuitable for an un-Harrowed boy. The mental strain it must place on the child, immeasurable.

It is simply impossible that Cassandra has not noticed.

Seeker Pentaghast wraps her arm about his shoulders, keeping him close and upright against her side. His head lolls with sleepiness. In the other hand she holds a report from the former Left-Hand. Remarkable women, both of them. She tilts the parchment so she can read by the firelight. In the still air the flame stays steady.

Vivienne excuses herself for bed, a hard, narrow cot that she doesn't mind in the slightest. As long as her feet are warm, she is content. With Cassandra's comfort, Cyprian's teeming instability dissipates.

\--

Vivienne keeps him back, grabbing Cyprian by the collar of his robes when he tries to dart towards Cassandra at the front line of battle. As it is, he makes too much noise with his unneeded grief. Little whimpers of helplessness. The Seeker has not fallen, she is only a slight bit injured, the Rage demon having showered her in thick, syrupy flame, ash clinging to her dark hair like polluted snow, gray, hot. She has no free hand to dust it away. Had she been wearing her helmet, it would have been worse, baking her brain inside a personal oven. Like this, the fire will only scar her scalp.

Cassandra stumbles, breaking her fall with her shoulder first, then her hip. Clever, to break the impact with the hardest points of her body.

"No worries!" Sera shouts as she runs towards the Seeker.

Light as ever on her feet, Sera passes Vivienne and Cyprian as a gust of wind. On her way, she brushes the top of Cyprian's head with the palm of her hand. Just as soon, she shimmers out of vision, reduced to silent kinetics. 

Without a standing defender, the remaining Shades turn their focus to Vivienne, her prior spells having attracted much attention. While well-versed in combat games, it appears she has not been tempered enough in her execution. Silly mistake, that is all. 

Throwing up a barrier around herself and Cyprian, Vivienne plots her next move, something sharp and simple. A mind blast to keep them back, minimal mana coupled with the sweet taste of cleverness. A second behind her spell, Cyprian shudders a blast as well. It has a shaky, uncultured power to it.

While the Shades are held back, she whispers quite close to Cyprian's ear, "Now is not the time, Little Herald."

"My name is Cyprian." He is ever correcting her when she attempts endearments. His refusal makes her smile each time.

Sera returns to the visible realm at Cassandra's side, holding a health potion to her lips, coaxing her to drink. "Silly woman," Sera mouths, "don't make me get in front'a ya again." Before Cassandra regains her feet, Sera kisses the highest point of her cheek. As she shimmers, she laughs. Cassandra expels a war cry without a second thought to Sera's excessive affection.

The Shades leave the mages be, slicking along the uneven ground back towards Cassandra. With the Rage demon already dispelled, she takes her helmet from the clip at her waist and snaps it back into place. 

Vivienne conjures ice from her staff, enough to slow the demons, but not to deter them from their course towards the Seeker.

"Go back to where you are safe, Cyprian," Vivienne instructs. "Seeker Pentaghast will summon you when you are needed."

"I am never needed," he blurts out. 

However, he obeys, the seafoam film of Vivienne's barrier dissipating from his skin as he scuttles away. Just before Vivienne returns her attention to battle, she catches him casting his own barrier, a sour yellow-green that reminds her of an overripe squash left to rot in an ill-tended garden she can barely recall. Her mother had been sad at the wasted crops. But Vivienne didn't know why when the squash's unsuitable end had been of her mother's own making.

\--

Vivienne is not invited to the advisors' meetings. Neither, in any case, is Cyprian. 

Upon arrival in Haven, Cassandra leaves her armor at the door to the war room, stacked in a neat, if somewhat precarious, pile. There is mud on some of it, scrapes and dents on most.

Sera and the Iron Bull have already left them, the elf tugging at the Qunari wherever she can reach, speaking lies about how deeply she hates him. That they should head to the tavern and enjoy what remains of evening. It would do Sera well to be a trifle more suspicious. She only troubles herself with avoiding conversion, oblivious, perhaps, to other, equally sinister fates. 

Cyprian sits cross-legged in front of the war room door, waiting for Cassandra's reemergence. It will be some time yet, Commander Cullen has even yet to arrive. Deployed somewhere in the nearby mountains on training exercises with worthwhile recruits, he is due any moment now. But Cyprian cannot be dissuaded, even when Vivienne tempts him with lessons in fire, his favorite. 

She is tired as well, but only makes a small concession to admit to her exhaustion. Folding her robes underneath her, she sits next to Cyprian on the chantry floor. It is cold, hard, and familiar. He never wishes to speak of Kinloch, saying only that he was good, the templars said he was good. So it must've been true.

"Come, Little Herald, we should both have supper." But she does not move from her place on the floor. 

He rubs at his eyes. From his stomach, Vivienne can hear his hunger. 

"Cassandra..." he begins.

"Will be busy for a long time yet. Come now." Pushing herself back to her feet, she offers Cyprian her hand. He takes it, if with some hesitance. She can feel the Mark through his fingertips, though it is not, at present, alight. It is a wild thing, this gift of Andraste, terrifyingly alive and at once bound. Bound to this fragile body that can barely house its rolling, contaminating desire. For what does the Mark ache?

They eat a quiet dinner together of soft, warm bread and overcooked meat. Cyprian hollows out his roll, picking the fleshy inside away from the harder crust, balling it up in his fist before shoving it into his mouth. It reflects poor manners. Vivienne instructs him, but she already knows it will take several corrections more.

Cassandra comes well after the meal is over, while Vivienne is enjoying watching the controlled flames Cyprian conjures in his palm. They are small, yet. But not for long.

"Vivienne, Cyprian," she addresses them with all the decorum befitting her upcoming station. As Inquisitor, she will enact great change in Thedas. Of this, Vivienne is certain. Oh, she is far from perfect, as all beings are. "We," she sighs, second guessing herself already. There is no time for this. "We depart for Redcliffe in two days." She threads long, slim fingers through the silky fringe of her black bangs. Her knuckles are prominent from frequent breaks and mendings.

"Of course, Seeker."

Cyprian stares up at Cassandra, his hands tightened into fists. "Are we going to help the mages?"

"We are going to speak with them. See if we can help each other."

Cyprian's joy in that moment is absolute.

This is a brutal world, with this mixture of magic and fear, Vivienne thinks, but it is worth salvaging.


	9. Chapter 9

Once before, Dorian witnessed the Herald of Andraste. His simple motions, his quiet demeanor. Seeker Pentaghast left the boy to play in the gardens of the Redcliffe Chantry with a handful of blameless children. Other little rebel mages with skinned knees and unapologetic smiles. They shouted, so brash and loud it made Dorian's perfect teeth rattle in his jaw. Cyprian followed like foam their wake.

They tore up flowers with their boots, tripping over one another as they ran across the soft earth, packing it down with each footfall. Quite suddenly, Cyprian let out such a loud, piercing scream that Cassandra flinched, meaning to run from the Chantry hall to tend to him. It would have cut Dorian’s first meeting with the Inquisition short. 

That brute who called Dorian pretty, “The Iron Bull,” held her back at the shoulder, assuring her that everything was fine. It was a shriek of joy, nothing more. Spending time with other children was important for Cyprian. There was no one for him at Haven.

\--

Nowhere in this world are mages wholly children. Not in in the south where they a bound in stone prisons and ideology of their own wickedness. Not in Tevinter where they serve by obligation to rule over men. Not in Par Vollen where their mouths are stitched with thread too coarse and thick for decent garments.

Dorian sometimes wonders what the dwarves think of them all, playing shell games with blood. Breeding magic into bodies in the north. In Ferelden and Orlais, they lie, as if mageness was a deformity to be eradicated. A twisted, vile lesion, oozing from generation to generation. They tell the Circle mages they are to have no children. How well that has worked!

But lies, lies, in all worlds, nothing but lies.

Before confronting Alexius at Redcilffe, they camp just to the east, out of sight of the city. Dorian keeps to himself, anxious with the way the Inquisition agents appraise him. They are just as distrustful of him as they are of the Hinterland bears. Close, too close, he hears the trill of a dragon, but she will not leave her young. They are safe until the dragonlings are grown. Then the problem only multiplies

He sincerely wishes to aid the Inquisition, yet they reject him out of hand by virtue of his parentage, his nation. Dorian cannot say he blames them. He would reject himself, for all that he knows.

His fingers hurt when he flexes them. A dull, stiff sort of pain.

In the anxiety of their careful planning, they forget Cyprian at the fireside. With time they forget Dorian altogether. Dorian asks the boy about his mother, light from the fire playing against his face. He smiles, big and bright with his missing teeth, black holes in between sterling white. They will come back in straight. He is a poor-little-rich-boy, like Dorian. 

He says his mother liked horses, machines, and him. She built him wind-up toys, with tiny gears making beautiful twinkling noise. From the light in Cyprian's amber eyes, Dorian can tell well enough her contraptions were magic enough for the boy.

"Was she a mage?" He must know for certain. There is a weight in Dorian's chest, many pebbles piled atop each other in his gut, not a singular stone. The answer may let him cast a bit of that burden. He is not sure why. Perhaps because he wants to believe this was all some sort of terrible accident.

"No, she is not."

Cyprian confuses his tenses sometimes. It renders an interstitial space for his mother, one between life and death where only he walks.

"And your father?"

The Herald only shakes his head.

\--

Alexius requires the Herald to stand before him Redcliffe at the side of Seeker Pentaghast. Cyprian’s presence is non-negotiable. It would not be Dorian's preference. He can’t imagine it would be Cassandra’s either. But the boy waits very still, his soft hands fisted at his sides in his miniature battle robes, twisting fabric between his fingers. They are quite fine, as good as any child's in Tevinter. Uncommon, though, in the south, for a mage-child's power to be augmented in any fashion. His staff is a simple one, cut short so that it does not skim the ground when Cyprian walks.

The Inquisition plan to infiltrate the castle works, forces creeping silently from the basements, appearing behind Alexius’ guards before he can make a terrible mistake. Their precision is admirable. 

Cornered, Dorian almost believes that Alexius is the man he once admired so. That he will realize the error of his current trajectory, his miscalculation. Dorian wishes to believe that his mentor will course correct, this was all a terrible mistake. Between he and Felix and his tenuous position, Alexius must see. Dorian is desperate for him to see.

Sometimes, Dorian realizes too late, he has too much faith in the goodness of men. At other times, too little.

Because when Alexius refuses to see reason, he turns to their science, their dream of something great, something beyond the realm of the magic of men. A magic that could not be bred or cultivated by blood, but one concocted by experimentation, knowledge, and tenacity. 

It is green, and sour. So brilliant that Dorian forgets to be afraid. Instead, he counters with his own spell, enough to disrupt, but not to kill. The brightness of the tear overwhelms his senses. Dorian chokes on the gasses until he touches the blackness instead of the green.

And when he wakes? Red. Terrifying, brutal red along the shimmers of still-standing water. Well, his robes are ruined. No use crying. Dorian presses his hand to his forehead, wet with sweat and muck. He does not know where he is.

But he knows the ragged cough, the expulsion of water from lungs that comes from breathing in liquid. Cyprian is choking, having woken face-first in the water. Dorian pulls the boy up by the scruff of his robes, patting at his back as he heaves. The water is soiled and must come up, so when Cyprian begins to gag, all Dorian can do is rub his back is slow circles until the tremors stop. He vomits up his lunch into the water around their feet, but their is no helping it. Cyprian’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes glassy with tears.

Dorian can hear footsteps, quiet chatter. Guards. He does not know who, but he can already assume he and the Herald are not welcome. They have heard Cyprian’s sickness.

Crouching down so he is eye-level with the boy, Dorian tries his best to say the right thing, the words that will let them get through this alive. 

“Cyprian, can you fight?”

The Herald nods, though the frown does not leave his puffy lips. 

“I will need your help, if we are to survive this. What spells do you know?”

“Barrier, fire,” he hesitates.

“Is there another?”

“Barrier, fire.” This time he acts as if he is certain.

Dorian does not have the time to push him further on the matter. “Good boy,” he pats Cyprian on the shoulder, “we take turns on the barriers, yes? And stay behind me.” Raising his staff, Dorian waits for the approaching adversaries. 

“Your barrier first, as soon as they round the corner,” Dorian instructs.

Cyprian’s timing is impeccable. Dorian’s is better, crafting a wall of fire that turns the doorway to their makeshift cell into a wall of death. The guards half-step to their demise, catching alight by their faces and not clever enough to fall into the water. They bake inside their armor.

A little bolt of compact flame skirts around Dorian like a fae before crashing into the breastplate of the closest guard. It hits with all the force of a thrown stone. Not bad for a child. Unnecessary, but not bad. 

With the immediate threat cleared, Dorian notices the oddness of Cyprian’s barrier. The way it...clings to his flesh, even through his robes. He can feel it pressing down against his veins, then relaxing, pulling skin away from tendon as it fades away. When it is finally gone, Dorian feels somehow lonelier. Beyond that he cannot explain it. Such a curious thing. 

It makes him want to understand. Despite the strangeness of their circumstances, despite the fact the world currently makes no logical sense, Dorian wants to take apart this tangle of flesh and magic at Cyprian’s hand. The key must be the Mark. But there is no time.

They run from chamber to chamber, piecing together the nature of their predicament. A jump forward in time, to a time where the Magister rules by terror and red lyrium. A garden of corpses with the maw of the Breach growing ever hungrier. 

When they find Cassandra, her eyes spiked red, her body trembling and emaciated, Dorian cannot help but look away. It is nightmarish to see her this way, a tangle of loose flesh and hard bone where once she was indestructible force. Her black hair is dull, limp. Her fingernails are cracked to the cuticle. 

Dorian looks away; Cyprian screams in delight. He throws himself upon her, wrapping his arms around her neck. He cries, “Cassandra, Cassandra,” as if the year has been real for him too. Not the mere matter of hours he and Dorian have been wandering the brutalized castle. 

Cassandra wraps her arms about his torso, holding him close. She buries her face against his shoulder. Dorian will tell no one that he hears her sob.


	10. Chapter 10

"Cyprian, Cyprian, you must wake up!" Cassandra shakes the boy awake at his thin shoulder. He has grown nearly an inch and a half since his induction into the Inquisition, but he is no bulkier. His eyes are blurry, his mouth slack. "Haven is under siege."

The boy's amber eyes go terribly wide. Cassandra can see the lick of flames behind them, evidence that he is not yet in control of his magic. But he pushes it down, down until it sputters out.

"I'll help! I'll fight!" His voice is so certain, like crisp morning bells.

Cassandra finds his battle robes, helps Cyprian pull them on over his nightclothes. "You will fight only as much as necessary to reach the Chantry, do you understand? You must get to the Chantry and find Leliana." She smooths down his wild, curly hair with her gauntleted hand.

"But what of you?" He grips his staff so tightly that his knuckles turn white as bone.

"I will be fine, Cyprian."

It may be a lie, telling him that they will survive this onslaught. But Haven is aflame and strange, mad templars well up like pockets of crimson and crow-colored puss. These are the battles for which she has trained. No one could have foreseen such circumstance, but Cassandra cannot help but wonder if her life has been merely a set of intersections, branching roads all leading here. Of all the fantastic, nonsensical things she has accused of doing, this may be the most extraordinary.

She pulls Cyprian forward by his neck, kisses his forehead, tells him to be brave. She means to show him the way her care bubbles up, overwhelming in this moment.

"Seeker!" Sera's shrill voice is at the door. Her fingers tremble where they press against the frame, tap, tap, tap. "We have to go, now."

Cassandra must believe that Cyprian can run the dirt paths up the hill to the Chantry unassisted. There is no time. Less than none.

\--

She does not think of Cyprian as she pushes forward against waves of opposition. He falls from her mind. There is no opportunity to dwell on sympathies, to fret. She buries herself to become an earlier iteration who still believes in duty above all else.

They crash against her shield, held steady. A tide of flesh, of beast. They break apart under magic and arrows, shattering into bloody fragments choking her boots. For too long now she has not seen the others through the smoke. But Cassandra breathes easier with each sign of their continued assault. Every skittering lightning strike, each arrow is an affirmation they have not lost.

They press forward towards the trebuchet. It is their best hope of clearing the approaching mass. Inquisition forces rush to ready the weapons for fire, but Cassandra knows they need her help. They need the time and space to prime the trebuchet. She can make that space, pull time from where none existed before. And it’s not even magic.

The weight of her responsibly to others vacillates. She hates this; she loves this.

"Sera!" Cassandra calls to her archer somewhere behind her back. "Can you reach the trebuchet? We must fire!"

Her hands are still busy with sword and shield, holding the templars back. Their eyes fume blood, ruby-rich and molten. Like glass, they reflect back. Burning, they are burning from the inside. She experiences it too in a moment of horror. Flames lick against her insides.

Cassandra feels the ghosting of a cool hand across her waist as Sera runs. An assurance, "I'm here, I'm good, I'm behind you. Now in front." All wordless.

Ahead, the trebuchet creaks, then bellows as it fires. Sera has made it past the swarm undetected, darting into perfectly sized spaces others could not even detect. The girl has her uses.

\--

In the Chantry they catch their breath. Cassandra's chestpiece is dented in the center, pressing against her ribcage when she breathes. They have no replacements.

"We will not make it, they are endless." Cullen grips at his hair, just where it falls over his forehead. His boots thud heavy against the stone.

"There must be a way," Cassandra sits for a moment on the floor. Neither wishes to admit defeat. It is not in their characters.

By providence, they find a way, a path remembered by Chancellor Roderick. A path few who remain alive remember. So much was lost at the Conclave, more will be lost now.

Roderick knows the way. He will show them, though he is weakened, though he has been unreasonable up until the present moment. The strange white-haired man, Cole, says he will help. He is here to help. Wants to. He helps Roderick to his shaky feet. Cassandra believes Cole, though not everything he says is truthful. Later there will be time for questions.

Cassandra and Cullen gather up the survivors, prepare them to walk in the footsteps of long-gone pilgrims.

Someone, someone must serve as a distraction. Someone must call down the sky before it swallows them all up against their will. A decision, a choice.

"I will set the last trebuchet at the mountain. We will bury Haven." Cassandra clenches her teeth. One of them is broken, in the back, from an old, barely-remembered strike at her soft cheek that missed her jawbone. She cuts her tongue against it.

Cullen shakes his head. "No, you must escape. It is you who leads the Inquisition, Cassandra. You are its legitimization, its future, its sustenance. And you know it."

"Cullen?"

"I will go. Protect them. Protect this future." He holds her wrist, a more intimate gesture than normally passes between them.

He is right. She hates to admit so, but he is right. "May you walk in the Maker's light."

\--

At first, Cassandra holds Cyprian's hand, directing him towards the tunnel that will lead them to safety. It is a small branch between her fingers.

He chatters, asking after Cullen. "Where is he? I don't see him!" Normally, his interest in the Commander is not so acute.

She lets him go, only for a moment, just to assist in breaking down the boards that conceal the entrance to the path ahead. She and Warden Blackwall have to pull the boards out, rather than smash them in. Roderick tells them there is a stone door on the other side that will not yield by force. Andraste will move it for them once the restrictions of men are removed.

The exit is in sight and, as Roderick said, the heavy stone door slides open once the boards are removed, but this is only the first step of many more. Cassandra turns, looks for Cyprian's dark, curly head. He is not by her side.

"Cyprian? Cyprian?" She looks for him among the small crowd that huddles through the doorway and into the low passage.

At the last moment she sees his robes, thrown up behind him as he runs back up the Chantry stairs.

"Cyprian!"

He does not hesitate.

Cassandra runs after him. She is faster and certain she can catch him. But when she reaches the top of the stairs, she is greeted only by the Chantry doors, thrown open.

Stepping outside, she witnesses the final light going out of Haven. Cullen succeeds. The snow is coming to meet the earth. The avalanche that will cover their escape.

She shouts for the Herald. But she cannot waste Cullen’s sacrifice. And the heavy blanket of snow is coming.

Cassandra returns to the basement.

She allows thoughts of Cyprian fall away. She must create time, create space. All without the aid of magics. She must vacillate. Otherwise, she wouldn't find much worth saving.

Because she loves this world, she leaves Cyprian behind.


	11. Chapter 11

Too late. By the time Cullen catches sight of Cyprian, running towards him in his dark winter robes, it is too late. The avalanche is already triggered, the mountains coming to touch the ground. 

He can do nothing but run towards the boy. Whatever Cyprian yells, Cullen cannot decipher it. Whatever Cullen yells in response is unimportant. What is important is that he throws his body over Cyprian's to protect him from the falling rocks. He keeps his weight off the child, trying not to crush him.

But the attempt is a futile one. The snow, rocks, soil, and ice rain down, beating against his back. It was their intent to bury Haven and Coryphaeus with it. In that, he has succeeded. The disaster's weight will become too much and he will crush Cyprian just as soon as the stones.

But the little Herald is not supposed to be here. He should be well on his way down the Pilgrims' Path at Cassandra's side.

The strain in his arms becomes unbearable. He cannot hold up the whole world. That is what this feels like. Against the ground, Cyprian is silent. It is too dark under the rubble to see. This blackness chokes them. Suddenly, inexplicably the air turns green. Cullen can see that much. And the green wraps around him like a blanket. No, not so heavy. It is a light touch against his skin, a brushing of fingers against the raised hair on his arms. 

Just before he loses consciousness, he remembers that touch. The last time he saw Neria in her Warden's robes. She told him, "goodbye." When she touched his arm, his every nerve raw from the demons, he recoiled.

\--

Cullen wakes in a cave he cannot recognize. He touches the side of his head, his fingers coming away bloody. The avalanche must have carried him here.

Cyprian.

Cullen tries to stand, but his leg will not cooperate. When he looks down at it he sees bone poking through the tear in his breeches. Maker. Bile rises in his throat. It doesn't stay there, he pushes it back down.

"Cyprian?" he calls out.

A voice behind him, "I'm here!"

Cullen breathes in relief. Cyprian's footsteps approach and the boy kneels in front of him. His curly hair is askew and his robes torn, but he looks fine. Safe. His eye is blacked-blue. An angry bruise, nothing more.

"I'm sorry," Cyprian begins to babble, "I couldn't keep the barrier up long enough and then I got very dizzy and I think it was because you fell on me and you are very heavy with all that armor so I couldn't breathe or maybe I just ran out of mana and Madam Vivienne doesn't allow me lyrium-she said not until I'm sixteen but I'm only ten today, at least I think today..."

He wants very much to reach out to pull the Herald close. Perhaps Cyprian needs to hear that everything will be fine. Cullen knows he needs to hear it. He does not reach for Cyprian. Instead he looks at his leg again and tries to formulate a plan. Cyprian has gotten them this far, Cullen must now make up the difference.

"I can't heal," Cyprian is matter of fact.

"No, of course not." The truth is Cullen knows very little of Cyprian's magic. Cassandra and Vivienne agree that he makes the boy too nervous, that he is too "templar." He honestly does not wish to know anything more on the subject. He lived too many years as "templar."

Fishing around in the pockets of his coat, he finds an elfroot potion. He drinks it down. It's cloying at the back of his throat. He cannot stomach snapping his bone back himself and Cyprian will not be strong enough. The potion will numb him slightly.

"We need to move," Cullen tells himself and Cyprian both. They feel the chamber shudder around them. Cullen worries it will collapse.

Cyprian helps him to his feet, standing by his weakened side. He rests his weight on Cyprian's shoulder and they start walking. The cave is sealed behind them so there is only one direction in which to tread.

Cyprian grunts underneath his weight so Cullen tries to carry himself better. White hot pain throbs through his leg, creeps to his hip, but the adrenaline and elfroot take over and it becomes bearable. They limp through the darkness.

The darkness gives way to green. The humidity in the chamber rises. Beads of sweat nip at Cullen's forehead even though he is still freezing. The Veil tears open before them. The rift threatens to swallow them up as it grows.

"Maker." Cullen draws his sword, his shield long lost. He thrusts himself away from Cyprian, putting himself between the rift and the boy. They will have to wear down the demons if Cyprian is to have any chance to seal the tear.

"Cullen!" Cyprian's voice is full of fear. Cullen turns.

It is not merely his left hand that glows green, but the magic envelops his arm to his shoulder, it smothers half his chest. Green grows like tangled vines across his body.

Shades pour forth from the rift, sticky and dark. Their ooze soils the snow as they creep. Cullen blots out his pain and lunges at the closest, his sword slicking through the shade with a wet slop, slop. His blade comes away muddied. Cyprian is wailing.

He turns on his heels. This will all be for naught if Cyprian does not survive. But Cullen knows how to fight the demons. He does not know how to fight Cyprian's magic. Magic in general yes, but not Cyprian's, his tangled gift. Still he turns, because he cannot do nothing when this child is in agony.

The Shades at his back, Cullen runs for Cyprian. He does not make it. The Anchor novas, too brilliant to be real, too visceral to be an illusion. A deep thud shakes the cavern and Cyprian is obscured.

Cullen hears a voice from the rift, from the Fade. The light hides everything. His eyes won't work. Everything blurs.

"Cyprian," a garbled voice reaches for them. It bounces off of Cullen's ears. She offers no advice, no counsel. "Cyprian."

And the light goes out. Cullen can see the ceiling. He lays on his back, trying to orient himself. The Shades!

When he sits up he sees nothing but remnants soaked into the snow, a sludge of water and demon mixed. Cyprian trembles. The light only emanates from his hand now. He hasn't the strength to stand, but Cyprian reaches out to stitch the rift closed. Once it is sealed, he collapses forward onto his face.

Cullen drags himself to the limp body to check for a pulse. It is perfectly resonant. He sighs with relief, pulling Cyprian's head and shoulders into his lap. They settle against the cave wall. It is not safe here, but they have run out of options. Fitfully, Cullen sleeps.

\--

They walk through the snow, undisturbed other than the whipping wind. It pierces their skin until Cullen can feel it in the nerves of his teeth. Cyprian conjures little fires in his hands to cut through the endless dusk. Hours pass but the sun does not rise. The clouds prevent it. 

His leg does not hurt so much now, numbed by the cold. No, that is a lie. His leg hurts a great deal. He offers his gloves to Cyprian, though his fingers are not long enough to fill them. Cyprian reminds him that he has the fire for comfort. But he must ration his mana, in case there is to be another battle.

No monsters materialize, just endless plains of solemn snow. They follow the trail of long extinguished campfires. Cyprian's heart races each time when he thinks the cinders are still warm. But it is only the residual heat from his own spells.

The final campsite feels warm to Cullen as well. He fears this must be the end. Hallucinations, nothing more. Cyprian smiles at him and he smiles back. He wraps his coat around the child. This time Cyprian does not protest. The fabric drags behind him like a royal train.

Cullen knows he must be finished when he hears Leliana's voice. "Hurry! Come quickly!"


	12. Chapter 12

It barely takes the Inquisition one week after settling into Skyhold before Cassandra is formally declared Inquisitor. They're not even really settled, but everyone who survived Haven has a place to lay their head and there is at least a steady supply line for food. The place already has all the fresh water they need. Game hunting allows them to make up the difference until more supplies can be reliably procured. Early in the mornings, Harding takes the bowmen out with regularity.

The pretty Nightingale Leliana stands at Cassandra's side when they bestow the title. Inquisitor. Bull still wants to lay his hands all over her pale, freckled skin. Redheads, redheads. The Commander is to Cassandra's right, stoic as ever, his back board-straight like he could use a good rutting too. But he's not the sort of man to seek it out. 

Dorian stands with Bull among the crowd. Everyone gathers together for the ceremony, though it is brief. The mage says something under his breath. Bull wishes he would just speak up, if he thinks he's so clever. That cologne he wears is particularly strong today whipped in the mountain air. Or maybe it's just the dreams Bull keeps having about his dark, warm skin and the long line of his neck.

Lifting the sword above her head as if it weighs nothing, Cassandra takes her rightful place in the Inquisition. The Herald runs to hug her about her waist. She's quite beautiful when she smiles. The crowd cheers unabashedly. A good day.

As they enter the tavern Bull is more convinced than ever they only even waited out the week to make sure Skyhold had a cask of ale ready for the occasion. He doesn't drink any of it because of rationing. It'll take more than they currently have allotted for him to even fuzz the corners of his mind. So he hands his mug to Krem before sitting down to write.

At first he's unsure what to put in his report. Par Vollen will already know of the destruction of Haven by other means. They'd spent two weeks in the mountains and then this last week making the Hold livable. He's been putting off this report. Most of the broad strokes of what happened at Haven would have reached the homeland by bird weeks ago. 

He starts instead with this morning, that Seeker Pentaghast indisputably has control of the Order. He repeats himself, writing that she is just and reasonable. She is devoutly Andrastian, but not blind to reason. All the things that will keep his countrymen happy, he writes. It'll keep them from crossing the sea too.

But they've never really asked after Cassandra. They want to know about Cyprian, though the letters never call him that. "The so-called Herald of Andraste." They want to know the extent of his powers, how suggestible he may be, who is responsible for his care. Every one of Bull's responses strings out the same information. He is most skilled at fire spells, barriers, and simple force. Ice he cannot produce at all. The Anchor allows him to seal small rifts, but using it tires him immensely. His "teacher," (he leaves Vivienne's name out of the reports, it would only make them angry) does not allow him lyrium, even when supervised. As to his faith, Bull can't figure. He doesn't yell out "Maker!" or "Andraste!" every other word. In fact, he hardly yells at all.

Besides, he's ten. He's impressionable, sure, but on the verge of a sort of strong-willedness that is going to make them all nervous when it rears its ugly head. Given what Bull knows of humans, he guesses Cyprian is probably a couple of years off yet from puberty. He can't even imagine what that's going to be like, if the kid even makes it that far. What with the way the Anchor rips him up each time he uses it. He gets all pale and green when he activates it, though he's not fair by nature. All his color drains out. Like the rifts take something from him too.

Bull tears up his letter into fine confetti and tries again. The last one was nothing but a couple of jumbled sentences and abstract doodles.

Cyprian stands next to Dorian, practically standing on the hem of his robes. He's got a mug in his hands. Bull's gotta believe they know better than to give an unstable ten-year-old drink, even if it is just a too-sweet ale. The kid doesn't smile, just keeps his hands wrapped around his mug and his shoulder to Dorian's side. That's something Bull could write, that he seems to prefer being around other mages. It's a start.

Somewhere along the line Bull's writing gets interrupted by Cyprian sliding next to him on the long bench. Most of the celebrants have decided to stand, clustered together in little groups that swell as more arrive, so Bull has had the table mostly to himself. He's no secret-spy. Everyone knows. And he likes the company when he writes, even if it is abstract.

When Cyprian puts down his mug Bull can see it's full of honeyed milk. A bit of it clings to Cyprian's upper lip too. He wipes it away with his tunic sleeve when he catches Bull staring. He keeps his hands in his lap after that.

"Are you writing to your masters?" Cyprian questions.

Bull puts down his pen. "Yeah, something like that." Even though Bull refused the ale earlier, he's got a glass of water flavored with mint. He drinks from it to fill the silence. It's gone warm.

"Cassandra says they ask about me."

"Aye, they do."

Cyprian shrugs. "Sometimes I think everyone else knows more about me than I know about me." He takes a gulp from his mug and there's that film of milk again. "Solas thinks I should have lyrium."

"Last I heard, Solas doesn't make that decision."

"He says it will make me stronger. Better. I'm tired of being weak."

Bull knows he should tell the kid to listen to Vivienne, who has been exceedingly cautious about his powers. Damn, sometimes he even thinks she'd be for the Qunari practice of silencing the kid, even though he hasn't done anything wrong yet. Yet being the operative word. At least Vivienne knows the kind of fire they're always playing with, to let Cyprian do as much as he does. To let that Anchor sit on his hand, but no one knows what will happen if they break it off.

But sitting in the crowded tavern, the noise of the Inquisition all around them, Bull doesn't think Cyprian's so dangerous. It's just a lot of responsibility for his narrow shoulders.

"Will you teach me to fight?" His hands are still curled in his lap.

"That's Viv-"

"No!" The lamplight catches in his eyes. They nearly glow red with the intensity of it. "I want to learn to fight like a man," he huffs.

Bull claps him on the back and asks if he wants to go now. Enthusiastically, Cyprian nods. They leave their mugs behind and exit the tavern. The rack of training weapons has an axe sized for dwarves, but it's weighted for adults, as heavy as the larger ones humans use. Bull takes up a one-handed sword instead. It's not quite right, asking Cyprian to grip the short wooden pommel with both hands. Tomorrow he'll ask the smiths about getting an axe, but right now Cyprian is so full of energy that Bull won't deny him a few strikes.

He shows the boy how to stand with his legs apart, knees bent. How to grip so the sword won't fly out of his hands. He puts a hand to Cyprian's back to correct his posture. Then he lets the boy swing as hard as he might, he gets a few good thwacks in against Bull’s chest. Like a nug nip. Bull laughs because this is fun, watching the little mage play at being a warrior.

Once Cyprian tires, he collapses in a heap on the ground. His tunic is a little big, but it'll be the right size in a month or so. Bull ruffles his hair, everyone does. 

"You should go to your chambers."

Cyprian shares accommodations at Skyhold with Cassandra. That big fucking room just off the grand hall. The Inquisitor likes to keep him close when at all possible. A little bit surprising that Bull has gotten this much time alone with him. Must be the lightness of the occasion. 

Though he is exhausted, Cyprian complies. Bull helps, hoisting him up and pointing him in the right direction. He leaves without complaint.

Only then does Dorian make himself known, though Bull noticed him some time before, "hiding" in the shadows. He leans against the side of the quartermaster's, waiting for Bull to make the first acknowledgement. More than anything, Dorian wants to be recognized as he is, despite all the show and flash to the contrary. 

"Been there long?" Bull humors him. 

"If you are going to teach Cyprian to fight, you should be more practical about it." Dorian says like he knows better than Bull. He is a mage, so maybe he does. "Teach him to strike with the same staff he'll carry."

Bull shrugs, breaking into a smile. "I thought you were here for a different sort of show."

Dorian scoffs, but takes that crucial step towards him. Though the ale was scarce, Bull can still detect it on Dorian's tongue. Kinda wants to crawl in there. Push Dorian up against the stone exterior and pin him in place. Know what that scent on his neck tastes like because it's been driving Bull to rage for weeks. Since Haven. And Dorian's so close. Close and electric all the time.

Bull stamps down the urge, because he's not willing to give Dorian the satisfaction. He’ll fuck the tavern woman later, run the whole thing out of his system. It’s just a phase.


	13. Chapter 13

They all get their measurements taken for this Ball-Dance-Thing. Over at the place with the elfy name that Sera just still calls "Winter Palace" because at least that's a name a girl can remember. Leliana brings the tailor down from Val Royeaux to take her measurements and Sera's not going to lie she really likes the way it feels with those fingers against her tights. Too soon it's all over but then the INQUISITOR comes to get her measurements done too.

Sera doesn't say anything out and and out. Because INQUISITOR would not like that. But she perches herself on the empty stool and watches while INQUISITOR gets herself felt up like a good girl. The numbers on the tape are big, bigger than Sera's but she already knows that because Sera has already put her grubby hands on Cassandra's hips and her tits and everywhere else she'll let Sera touch. They just don't talk about it. Not here, not where she's INQUISITOR!

So Sera sits awkwardly on the stool, one leg tucked under under her arse, one hanging free, and waits for her lover-girlfriend-person to give her a smile. Because she gets at least that, right? At least a smile.

When she does it, really truly smiles at Sera, that's when she's Cassandra. That's when Sera smiles back. Her foot slips all the way to the floor, her soft-soled shoes picking up dust.

\--

By the time they actually get ready to leave for this noble-bullshite party Sera is wound so tight she's about to burst. But it's not as bad as how Cyprian is literally splitting out of his fancies because it looks like the tailor failed to notice Cyprian is ten and the digits she took six weeks ago weren't at all appropriate for kiddo today. Before they get into the carts it’s a mad dash to make alterations to even fit Cyprian's shoulders into the red coat. Bad color for him. The sleeves are too short too, showing off his knobby wrists. And the pants! Well, they had to just throw him in other breeches because those weren't salvageable. Vivienne is horrified at everything.

Once Sera's in the cart she smooths down the rising folds of her yellow dress. Poppy and springy even though the seasons are changing the other way around. The dress looks good on her, pretty. She hopes Cassandra notices even if she can't say anything. Cyprian clambers in next. Sera picks up her skirts so he doesn't crush them. There's this big smile on his face when he gets settled down even though his clothes still don't look right. He's just getting so big, broader and taller and everything.

Cassandra's last to the cart. She's puffed-up beautiful in her suit. Leliana tried to talk her into a dress that Sera would have liked to talk her out of later, but this is good too. The fabric is as black as her hair but not as glossy. There's gold on it too. But not like, rich people gold. Like, Cassandra got this gold because she's a warrior, she's important, and now she's INQUISITOR. 

Cyprian occupies the space between them, leaning into Sera when the cart bumps along the road. Used to be he was more grabby with Cassandra than anyone else, but he's grown out of that a little. Sometimes he still clings, when he's really, really scared. Mostly now he tries to be tough.

He babbles on and on about "The Iron Bull" and how when he's a little bit taller he'll get a full size axe like Krem's, but not as big as "The Iron Bull's" because he's just a human and not a Qunari. The way he talks it's like he's forgotten he can shoot fire from his fingertips or pin a grown bloke against the wall with the flick of his wrist. But maybe it's good he doesn't always want to be using his magic. Makes him less creepy, maybe.

Sera throws her arm around Cyprian's shoulders. Conspiratorially, she asks if he can keep a secret. Cyprian nods, his dark curls bouncing. Course he can. He's the biggest secret of them all.

"I think the Inquisitor likes someone."

"She likes lots of people!" Cyprian's voice is too bloody loud to keep a secret.

Cassandra glares at her, not him.

"Nah, like, she like-likes someone."

"Oh?" He tilts his head to one side. "Who?"

Sera leans back against the cart. She already knows her dress will be a mess. Under the layers of fabric she's wearing tights, boots for fighting too. This isn't really a party, it's a battlefield in disguise. But all Sera's wars have taken place in the intervals where the powerful haven't been watching, when they've been partying. 

"Me," she says with complete assurance.

Cassandra scoffs, turning away and looking at the road ahead. She could have just as easily pretended not to hear at all.

That makes Sera smile. Now at least one person who isn't the two of them knows. Makes it feel realer. Like it can't just die in her hands.

\--

The party is a bore until Cassandra tells her to get out of her dress. But it's not for that, it's because they gotta fight. She knows who it is, who will try to kill the Empress, who Cory-face’s bedmate is. 

All the while Cullen has been trying to fill Cassandra’s head with nonsense about making Gaspard Emperor. Not that Sera cares either way, she just wants to try doing something else tonight other than stepping on Cyprian's toes as they dance across the ballroom floor. Kiddo's a surprisingly good dancer though. Says his ma taught him. Sera's prone to forgetting his a little noble. Most of the time he's just another orphan. Like her; like Cassandra.

Sera kisses the top of Cyprian's head before darting off to join Cassandra. Another year, maybe less, and he'll be taller than her. He's already shot past Varric. 

"Don't leave him by himself," Cassandra scowls.

Right, right! Sera turns back to grab Cyprian's hand and takes him to Cullen standing in the shadows. He's been trying to do this sort of broody thing all night but it doesn't work because he doesn't look put-out enough. Not with the way men and women flock to him like hungry dogs and he’s meat. Meat, hah! 

Cyprian and Cullen never touch each other. Everyone else puts their hands all over kiddo because, well, he's a kid, right? He needs affection, to know he's loved, that he’s real. Sera wishes there was someone to do that for her. But there wasn't so she'll do it for him. But Cullen doesn't reach to take Cyprian's hand. He does excuse himself from the pack of hangers-on, but he doesn't reach to pull Cyprian close. Cyprian doesn't reach for him either. 

"Be good, yeah?" Sera instructs. "Seeker and I are gonna get the bad guys."

"Inquisitor," Cullen corrects. He's always trying to correct. That might be why he doesn't like Cyprian. Thinks the kid is broken, like his pieces are put together wrong. Well, fuck him. Nothing's wrong with Cyprian, even if he is a mage. Even if he is weird. That doesn’t make him bad or wrong.

"Be good," Sera tells Cullen.

\--

Sera doesn't know what Cassandra plans to do to Flo-reee-aaaaane but she knows it's probably not meant for a kid’s eyes. That doesn't mean it's the worst thing Cyprian's gonna see before he's old enough, but that's not an excuse to make him watch. 

She throws up her hands and runs towards him, rattling off minor details about what she's seen around the palace like they matter. Stuff she ran across while sneaking around. Statues and books and lockets and stuff. She talks and talks until he can't take his eyes off of her. When she runs out of things to say, she makes up some more. Cyprian interjects, wided-eyed and flushed, saying that he met a boy, like him. His name is Kieran and he's ten too. Born just after the Blight, like him.

Sera doesn't like hearing about the Blight because to her it's just a bunch of fire and destruction and screams. Hiding behind shite that ended up burning down too. But she asks about Kieran, glad that Cyprian wasn't stuck with Cullen this whole time. He's got black hair, like Cyprian, but it's straight. And he's pale, but he wouldn't say if he was a mage or not. Cyprian thinks he is. And he’s four months older than Cyprian so really he’s almost eleven.

Cyprian's still twittering like a songbird when the rest of the posh party guests gasp in shock. Sera scrunches her eyes shut, real-tight even though they're not facing that direction. Hopefully Cyprian didn't notice. He just keeps talking about Kieran, wondering if they'll be friends. He wants a friend.

\--

Sera and Cyprian bake cookies together. Even though neither of them know quite how. They guess on the measurements. What's the worst that can happen? Cyprian wanted Kieran to come along at first, but now he wants to surprise him with the cookies. Kieran, Kieran, Kieran! The kid gives Sera the real-creeps. His mom too, even though she's fit. Morrigan has eyes like a hawk and always looks at everyone like they’re prey for the taking. 

But Kieran is a bunch of silences all strung together with soft smiles and thin fingers. Sera used to think of Cyprian like that, all weird and mage-y. But it's different now because they bake cookies together and throw apple seeds from the roof of the tavern at Cassandra as she trains. Until she gets so mad she yells instead of grunting. But she never stays angry for long, because...love? Makes Sera's chest hurt just thinking about it.

\--

She catches Cyprian "playing" with Kieran. They're in the garden, otherwise unsupervised. Morrigan must be in that meeting with Cassandra and the other advisors. Sera stays back, but doesn't bother dropping into stealth. The two boys are too preoccupied with one another to pay her much mind.

At first they are quiet. They sit together, cross legged on the ground. Cyprian makes a little fire in his hand, warm and golden. Kieran stares into it intently, before blotting it out with ice. His eyes are like his mother’s. All gold and green and weird, predatory. Cyprian smiles at the trick, telling the other boy he can't make ice at all, no matter how hard he tries. Kieran just shrugs his shoulders. He does not talk much.

Sweet, sweet Cyprian makes up for the silence, telling him about Haven before the avalanche and Cory-face and all about Skyhold. They should go see the rest of it, now that they’re alone. He hops up, offering a hand to Kieran. Smiling, Kieran accepts it. They lace their arms together and Cyprian starts running, dragging Kieran behind.


	14. Chapter 14

They have been at Skyhold for nearly a year. The Frostbacks have been kind to them. The hold's defenses are far better than those of Haven. Of course they are. They violently traded a sleepy village steeped in history for a fortified outpost with no discernible past. Skyhold feels like a perpetual presence with its constant activity. Merchants in and out, troops always in movement, couriers and staff, cooks, blacksmiths. Everyone acutely exists in the now.

The past arrives quietly. In a tall, lean package with a staff on his back.

When Markus Hawke comes to Skyhold, Cullen's first instinct is to run him through with his sword. Cut him up into tiny pieces and scatter his flesh across the mountain, use his sinew for floss and his bones for sewing needles. Perhaps this is a sign of his lyrium withdrawal, to feel something so intensely again. This intensity has been missing from his life for ten years, maybe more. Since his first drink passed his lips.

But Hawke is useful to the Inquisition, of course. And Cassandra has long-carried a misguided infatuation with the legend of Hawke. Champion of Kirkwall. Seeing him in the flesh does nothing to dissuade her. Cullen cannot dissuade her. And so they leave for Crestwood with talk of a Warden in need of Inquisition aid.

But they do not leave before Markus pins Cullen against the battlements, kisses him senseless, full of fire and danger, and asks if he was missed.

"No," Cullen replies. And it is the honest truth.

When Cassandra returns from Crestwood, Cyprian is even taller. His face has started to thin as well, just a touch, losing the puffiness of youth. He still looks impossibly young given what is routinely asked of him, but he does look older. But it is that unceasing rigor of Skyhold that makes Cullen forget that days and months pass.

Markus has one hand on Cyprian's shoulder, leaning forward to look the boy in the eye. Cullen cannot make out what they are saying. He stalks towards the Champion, ready to deter him from whatever lies he thinks of spreading. Yes, Cullen has learned there are good apostates. Markus Hawke is not one of them.

As Cullen approaches, Markus stands up straight, sticking his hands into the pockets of his fraying robes. He smiles with an easy casualness that stokes Cullen's frustration. 

"I take it the meeting with your Warden friend went well?" Cullen asks. He will not lash out in front of Cyprian. He bites the inside of his cheek.

"Aye. Inquisitor Pentaghast can tell you all about it. I should depart, soon."

Morrigan's son runs up to them, taking Cyprian by both hands and dragging him away. He says nothing and does not acknowledge either Cullen or Markus' presence. He simply whisks Cyprian away without a word. Cyprian's absence lets Cullen breathe easier.

"I take it your pirate queen is waiting for you?" He does not want it to sound like jealousy. It does.

"She is," Markus grabs one of the buckles on Cullen's armor, pulling it with almost enough strength to move him. "But I'm going to the Western Approach first, my work for the Inquisition isn't done yet."

Markus kisses him again, in the open courtyard. Cullen doesn't mean to yield to it. Mistakenly, he does, opening his mouth just enough to prove his weakness. When Markus pulls back, he's smirking. It reaches the corners of his cornflower blue eyes.

"You tasted better with lyrium on your tongue."

Cullen remembers for the thousandth time why he hates Markus Hawke.

\--

Cyprian turns eleven. They forget to celebrate. It has been a year since Haven, exactly. If anything, they mourn.

Cullen sees Cyprian as he is walking from Cassandra's suite back to his own office. He and Morrigan's son stand together in the fading light of early evening holding hands. Facing each other, their fingers are woven together, above their waists, not quite as high as their shoulders. Cullen is certain they are speaking though their lips do not move.

He is struck with such sudden fear of their power, that of two unchecked mage boys, that he reaches for his sword. When his palm touches the pommel, he comes back to himself, realizing how rash he has just acted. Did he mean to kill the boys? No, this is nothing. Only children playing. They are allowed that much.

Finally, Cyprian's mouth does move, asking Kieran if he can feel his pulse through his hands. Kieran shakes his head. Their fingers squeeze tighter together. Cullen cannot continue watching. He must have faith they are up to no ill.

He will speak to Cassandra tomorrow about sending Kieran and his mother away. This is not the place for them.

\--

Cullen is to stay with his forces, to command. But Adamant burns around them. Ash and flame fall from the sky as Wardens wail. He can hear their voices, stinging in his head. He can hear the demons too, as they break and bubble through the skin of mages. Mages who gave their lives willingly to the creatures that now make their bodies walk with a marionette's grace.

And he remembers the touch of Desire's darkness against his skin, how it wrapped around him at Kinloch, unable to enter because he is no mage. But the demon still wove its way around his body. How it made him mad for Neria, her pale skin and bright eyes. The lyrium kept these memories away, buried, but he remembers her now. And he remembers Morrigan at her side as they freed him from his prison. He'd told them to kill everyone. Mages are not people. He told Neria, the future Hero of Ferelden, that she was not worth a copper.

Looking at the Wardens, he nearly believes that adage again. 

Instead of giving into his hatred, he runs. He runs towards the center of the fortress, not stopping to fight himself. He must have faith in the Inquisition’s forces to win. They will. No other option exists. He blots out the screams and follows the Inquisitor's path.

The minutes drag, but he does not. 

The archdemon, weighted, huge, terrifying, shrinks to the head of a pin in his mind.

When Cullen comes back to the surface, when the blurred destruction around him sharpens back to reality, he sees Cyprian falling. He falls into the blanket green that opens up before him, spreading like mold across the air. 

"Cyprian!" Cassandra. She follows after him.

Cullen doesn't remember the gait of his feet. He only worries that he is not fast enough. But he runs, he must, flinging himself from the falling precipice after Cassandra and Cyprian.

\--

Markus and Cyprian burn things. Cassandra and Cullen keep them from getting burned. Alistair does as he is told. Cullen can hear the gnashing of Alistair's teeth replacing words he does not speak aloud.

Cullen still cannot believe they are in the Fade. It feels all wrong, the suffocating humidity, the stench that clogs his pores. As they fight, he sweats it back out, but it continues to cling to his skin.

They follow the path the Divine marks for them. They catch Cyprian's memories like stars. So bright and so hot they burn him to touch. But he absorbs each and every one, folding them back into himself. 

Long ago Cassandra dropped any pretense of believing that Cyprian was capable of killing the Divine. Cullen is perhaps more skeptical. But the memories blossom one by one, attesting to his utter innocence. It's voyeuristic, seeing the things Cyprian forgot.

There is an order to the memories. Cyprian shakes his head after each one. "It is my fault," he says dejectedly. 

"No, Cyprian," Cassandra comforts.

There is a single memory out of order. When Cyprian touches it, he screams. It bursts open like an overripe fruit. "Mama, mama!" And suddenly his years fall away. Only two, but two years is a great deal of time at his age.

The memory is already wilted, having remained too long. She has the same dark curls as Cyprian. Her eyes are dark too. In her sadness, she smiles, as if she is really there, not an illusion, a trick of the Fade. 

"Mama, mama."

Her lips part, but no words come.

Cullen has to look away. He swallows down his recognition. No one will notice because Cyprian sobs on the floor of the Fade, a broken doll at risk of reanimation by a vile puppeteer. If he were ever vulnerable to possession, it would be now. 

Cullen never knew her name. But he knows it now from the letters that have come from Ostwick. Strange. To even think the syllables of her name would make it impossible to deny. He knew her.

\--

Cyprian and Cassandra come through the hole in the world a moment after Alistair. Cyprian covers his face with his hands. He says he never wants to go back. Never, never.


	15. Chapter 15

When Cyprian turns twelve, little of the celebration is explicitly for him. Skyhold is in good spirits. Following their success at Adamant, they believe they have Coryphaeus on the defensive. One more push and they'll have the bastard at his leathery-torn throat. Blackwall isn't privy to where on the map that strike will be. He only knows that Inquisitor Pentaghast is a deliberate woman, who will assess her options before striking. She is also decisive. So it may be any day now.

The tavern is full of song and liquor. They sing about the lad who might as well already be tucked into bed. Blackwall has a toy for him, a wooden nug with working joints. When Cassandra first recruited Blackwall, the Herald was rarely without his stuffed toy of roughly the same dimensions. Now he has grown too old for the soft one.

One of the ladies at the forge helped him fit the sockets and thread the tendons with leather cord. She batted her eyelashes against sweat-soaked cheekbones, hot from the fires. She said it was sweet of him to fashion a present for the Herald. Blackwall gave her a present in the barn loft after they had finished.

He finds the birthday boy with Sera at his side. She's got her hand in his, her mug of something in the other. When she laughs some of it spills out the brim and over her hand. When Dorian's joke is done, she turns to Cyprian and asks if he got the punchline. If not, she'll explain.

Whatever bawdy tale it may have been is probably not for the ears of a lad. Blackwall interjects in their revelry, crouching down to get at eye level with Cyprian. He doesn't have to travel as far as he used to. Cyprian is only a few inches off of Sera now. He'll be tall, once he's grown.

"Happy Birthday, lad." He gives Cyprian the nug. There was no need to wrap it.

At first Cyprian scowls, perhaps thinking twelve is too old for such frivolity. Pain is not uncommon these days, even for the young. Maturity arrives early when at war. Blackwall tries to forget this. On the reverse of his eyelids, Rainer sees the broken bodies of little boys. He feels the bile rises up from his stomach.

When he looks again, he sees Cyprian tugging at one of the nugs ears, watching how that makes the rear leg glide. Then his hand moves to the next ear. He smiles.

"My mother used to make toys like this." He is silent for an interval. Blackwall does not know what to say in response. "Thank you. It is very clever. I might take it apart, so I can put it back. Would that be bad? Oh, I guess it would be. It must have been very hard to get to work. Hmm."

Blackwall laughs because it means he won't have to speak. Cyprian will bubble up to fill all the empty air with his voice. His rambling will expand to fill the room, if he is allowed.

Sera says that he should drink with them. He wants to, he does. But there has been something else on his mind. Heavy inside of him, ever since he found out about the trial, the thought sinks him. He'd like a word with the Inquisitor. Though her time is always cramped, Blackwall is sure he can get a moment.

\--

The next time he sees Cyprian, it is from the inside of his cell at Val Royeaux.

Cassandra and Cullen ask him questions at length. An endless repetition of them. On the nature of his crime, the nature of his repentance, the nature of his nature. Rainer answers them in dry tones. More than anything, having Cyprian there, tucked into the corner, shames him. When he looks out through the line of the bars, he can see how wide Cyprian's eyes are. Yes, this is a terrible thing he has done. Worse, even, that he has obfuscated the truth for so long.

"Well then," Cassandra looks worn. There are strands of silver in her black hair that were not there three years ago. The lines of her face have etched deeper as well. This burden will run her ragged. But she does not look as if she regrets it for a moment. "Cyprian," she calls the boy forward. "You have listened to the Commander and I discuss Thom Rainer's fate. What would you have us do?"

This is a test, Rainer realizes. He is unsure who is being evaluated.

Cyprian comes to the bars of his cell, holds onto them with both hands and stares at him. His eyes are bright, alert. His knuckles blanche. "What he did those years ago was bad. Really, really bad. I mean. They killed, they killed everyone. But I've killed people too, when I think about it. Maybe not with my hands but, like, with my magic when they attacked. But they didn't attack Blackwall. He attacked them. They could have been my family. I don't know." He cocks his head to one side. "But since then he's been trying to be good, right? Really, really good. And the Wardens were supposed to forgive him, right? But now the Wardens are ours. So maybe he should be ours now too?"

"What do you think, Cyprian?" she asks again, waiting a finalization of Cyprian's intent.

"We should take him back to Skyhold." And it is decided.

\--

Inquisitor Pentaghast presides over a mock judgement. He was not brought to Skyhold to die. Certainly not with Cyprian standing to the side, his amber eyes forward. Cullen has one hand on the lad's shoulder. That's progress, Rainer thinks. Used to be the Commander would recoil when Cyprian was too close.

He is promised to the Wardens, once the Inquisition has no more use for him. So, yet another judgement lies ahead. Wonderful. Biting his tongue, he swallows down the response, "ain't no Wardens anymore."

It's not the demise he wanted weeks ago, when he shattered his own armor. But it'll do.

\--

One job. He has one job.

As they cut their way through the Arbor Wilds, Blackwall stays half a step in front of the Herald, his shield raised, sword drawn. The Wilds are sticky, humid, awful. He sweats under his armor, between folds of flesh. Everything feels wet. They must press forward.

His task is simple, protect Cyprian. Nothing ill may become him. If Cyprian falls to the Red Templars now, this will be for nothing. Leaving him behind is not an option either, as they may need the Anchor at any moment. They do not know where the rifts may split the world open, letting the Fade leak through. They also do not know Mythal's price.

Wave after wave of Red Templars attack, shrieking with soulless eyes. They smell foul. Unwashed and sour. Choking dust kicks up when the lyrium in their armor breaks. It will get into their lungs. Blackwall fears it will make them mad.

They slice through the Wilds like a spear; Cassandra is their tipped point. Morrigan keeps pace with her, though it is a dangerous position for a mage. Fighting so far forward leaves her vulnerable. But Blackwall’s charge is the Herald and the Herald alone. Cullen said it would put his mind at ease to have Blackwall watch over him. Cassandra said she'd do anything to keep Cullen from doing something stupid again, like falling into the Fade.

\--

Cyprian solves the puzzles on the floor, running from tile to tile as they light beneath his feet. With each step Cassandra tenses, afraid a wrong turn will cause some sort of abstract destruction. Blackwall's feet are too clumsy to run after him. All of them are, they break the pattern of light trying to catch Cyprian. He makes it look like dancing. So, instead, they wait off the platform and watch Cyprian perform. 

Morrigan assures them no ill will befall Cyprian. Besides, he is fastest at solving the riddles. When he gets it right and the tones chime, Cyprian beams, looking to Cassandra for approval.

"It's really easy once you figure out the pattern of it. I mean, it's much easier than chess with Dorian and sometimes I even think Dorian lets me win which really doesn't help me get any better," he rattles.

Cassandra breathes easier.

\--

The Well of Sorrows appears nothing more than a pool of still water. The surface looks like untouched nectar, sitting in the fold of a flower. But Blackwall knows not to trust appearances.

The ancient elves, strange fuckers, are gone. To that, Sera says "good riddance" before accidentally biting the inside of her cheek. She spits out a "Shite!" at that. Morrigan says she can hear it already. The voices of ancients. They will be louder if she drinks.

Beside him, Cyprian twitches like a scared deer. He's all nerves. That's when Blackwall realizes Cyprian can hear it too, whatever it is. When Morrigan steps towards the Well, Cyprian gasps "No." Not so loud that anyone else can hear. It is a refutation on his own account.

Cassandra says she has no intention to be bound to an elven god. Morrigan is flippant. She knows much and wishes to know more. She wants to drink.

And so she does. The water creeps up her robes, making them dark and saturated with this so-called-sacred Well. She drinks and for a moment everything goes to hell.

When the Witch of the Wilds screams, so does the Herald of Andraste. He throws his fists over his ears and wails. There is no visible threat for Blackwall to fight, so instead he grabs the lad and pulls him against his chest, wraps his arms around his body to keep him from splintering apart. He hasn't the words, so Blackwall just holds him until the whirl of water and magic stops. Until Morrigan stops. Until Cyprian stops too.

Cyprian's eyes are wide open, his breaths coming in gasps. Blackwall asks him if he is alright. He nods and says he's just not strong enough yet.

At the Well, Morrigan smiles. She says she can hear them, a cacophony of noise. The Well will tell her how to defeat the dragon, once she can see down the endless tunnel of everything. Blackwall doesn't like the sound of that, but he has no voice in the matter.


	16. Chapter 16

Cassandra wakes to the sound of Sera snoring. For a moment, she forgets where she is. If this is the Storm Coast and waves crash against the cliffs? If she is in Kirkwall, silent except for footsteps of the City Guard? If she is in the Western Approach, wind and sand beating at the side of the canvas tent?

None of those are correct. She props herself up on her elbows. She is merely in Sera's tavern room. Sera's kitsch is scattered over everything. Rugs on the floor, little toys on her shelves, fresh flowers in a vase, these are things to which Sera is unaccustomed. This room is the first place Sera has had to call her own. She fills it until it is bursting.

Cassandra lies back and appraises the boarded ceiling. Sera has pasted paper stars in various colors to the beams. 

"Mm, Cass," Sera mumbles in her sleep. She throws her arm over Cassandra's torso, making them both too hot. Autumn isn't too far off.

When Sera's eyes open they look impossibly big and blue in the barely perceptible lamplight streaming in from outside.

"Wot? Aw, you've been staring at me?" Sera questions in good humor.

Cassandra has been, but she won't admit to it. Instead she mouths "Go back to sleep."

Sera complies. 

Before dawn she'll slip away, back to her quarters to go over the morning's paperwork. She'll put on her tunic and breeches, embroidered with copper thread. Her armor for Skyhold. The courier with her letters will bring her tea in an effort to soothe her mood. Sera will sleep in until nearly noon. 

\--

"Inquisitor!" Leliana's voice trembles. She stands in the archway of the Inquisitor's quarters. Her face flushes at her cheeks, but is pale everywhere else. "Morrigan's son walked through the Eluvian. Morrigan has followed. She was frantic."

"Kieran?" Cyprian's voice cracks on the name.

Cassandra tosses aside her pen and reaches instead for her cloak. There is no time to waste on her armor. "What more do you know?" She tries to remain calm. It would be easier if Cyprian did not dash past her in an absolute panic.

"Cyprian! No!" She catches him easily by the arm, using her longer stride to close the distance.

Cyprian's amber eyes are terrified. He struggles in her grip. "He promised me he would not go! She was talking to him in his dreams, that he should come. But he told me he wouldn't go. He promised."

Cassandra does not have time for this. The seconds tick by and the longer Morrigan is gone, the more tenuous Cassandra's hope of tracking her. Warden Alistair told her, before departing for Weisshaupt, that Morrigan can be capricious in her moods, erratic in her behavior. The Inquisition cannot afford lose her. They need her to defeat Corypheus' dragon. They need her and the Well and the power she carries.

Cyprian insists Kieran would not go. Not without him, at least. Cassandra cannot wait for him to reach coherency. Pushing Cyprian into Leliana's arms, she runs for the chamber where Morrigan's Eluvian stands.

The surface looks of untouched pearl, waiting to be defiled. Cassandra does not hesitate breaking through the film. Second guessing is not in her nature. Oh, she may come to regret this later, but in the moment she is always decisive. She can hear Cyprian's voice on the other side, crying for her, for Kieran, for himself. She can also hear Leliana reach him in time. When she lands on the floor of the Crossroads, she looks back to make sure Cyprian did not follow.

"Kieran? Oh Kieran!"

Cassandra follows the sound of Morrigan's voice. She is not far. Her son's name falls from her lips like the only prayer she has ever known. It may well be. Morrigan laughs at elven gods and the Maker with equal disdain. But to Kieran she is devoted.

"Inquisitor!" When she sees Cassandra she runs as if to greet a friend. Maybe they are friends? Cassandra's confidants always have such convoluted histories. "I cannot find him. I do not know what door..."

"Does the Well know?" 

Morrigan shakes her head. "They are quiet. Please, help me find him."

She thinks of Cyprian. Though he is not her son, she feels as if she knows a fraction, just a sliver of what Morrigan knows. She agrees they must find Kieran.

They walk paths that feel distant, though their feet do not tire. They walk for what feels like hours, but that cannot be right. Morrigan's voice grows hoarse, her tears dry, salt sticking to her cheeks. The Crossroads give way to endless destinations. Kieran is not to be found at any coordinates.

When Cassandra turns to look back at the expanse they have already traversed, Morrigan's son is there with a woman dressed in hide and metal. He looks unafraid.

"Morrigan," Cassandra gets her attention.

"Oh, Kieran!" As soon as she glimpses him, she runs forward to bundle him in her arms. She strokes his hair. Worried, she was so worried. 

But Morrigan does not look at the boy. Instead she stares ahead to the woman, haunting as she is. Her raptor's eyes are like Kieran's. Like Morrigan's. And suddenly Cassandra knows.

"Flemeth." Cassandra speaks her name.

"I have been called that. And many other names, child of the Maker." She smiles softly. It is disarming in its sincerity. 

"Mother," Morrigan's tone is firm. She is ready to fight for her child. Against all enemies, all odds. Cassandra hopes it will not come to that. Not against this witch who may make herself a dragon on a whim.

"Daughter, you have taken something of mine."

\--

Morrigan agrees to leave once Coryphaeus is no longer a threat. She affirms she has no reason to stay. Cassandra breathes a sigh of relief. What Kieran was, is, may grow to be, is uncertain. But she will not keep him at Skyhold.

\--

The Breach quakes, shaking the heavens and earth. Coryphaeus refuses to wait, so they must go. From Skyhold they can see the faucet of demons flowing to the earth. He is coaxing the Fade to swallow Thedas whole, like a morsel crushed between jagged teeth.

Cassandra tells Cyprian to hurry. He skitters away, out of the War Room and out of sight. Her advisors are already preparing for the worst. They must ride within the hour. She follows them out, moving at twice pace back to her chambers.

Sweat runs down the back of her neck as she fastens her armor into place with sturdy clasps. 

When she sees Cyprian again he is in his battle robes. They do not reach his ankles. His new set has yet to be finished. Dagna bursts into their quarters with a new staff, properly sized for an adult, or particularly tall youth. She was planning on giving it to Cyprian later.

"Happy birthday!" Dagna shouts before running out. She has dozens of other matters to attend.

Cyprian turns thirteen. 

\--

Everything around her produces excessive heat. Most of all her peaking frustration that Coryphaeus spirals ever out of her reach. Her sword is too short, her athleticism not enough to keep pace. But Cassandra stands at the front of the Inquisition, as she always has, and faces the darkness ahead.

She can feel the wind of Sera's arrows, the heat of Dorian and Cyprian's flames. Everyone else was tossed abruptly when the once-sacred ground splintered beneath their feet. The mountain has weathered desecration upon desecration. Now the mountain is no more.

Cassandra raises her shield to deflect blows aimed at her companions.

"Shite, SHUT UP!" Sera screams at the magister as her stealth field breaks. Just as soon she is gone again.

Cassandra listens for Cyprian's noises too, his sharp breaths as spells leave his mouth, ragged gasps when she is not fast enough to block and an attack skitters past her wall. Holding her position means she cannot look back, she can only trust.

The air smells of lightning and long dead corpses, sour and vile. The scent pricks at her skin. When ash billows up the odor dies down, but the dust in her lungs is not better.

The false Archdemon screams overhead, rattling her teeth inside her skull. The noise is so overwhelming Cassandra cannot help but look. When she does, she is unafraid. There is no available interval to fear. Only to fight. She turns back to Coryphaeus, mocking them with hollow words, ruminating on power he does not yet possess. Before the Archdemon can reach the platform, a second dragon grabs at its throat. 

Predator. Morrigan. 

They chip away at Coryphaeus while the dragons dance above. He cannot fall unless his pet goes first.

Morrigan crashes, the dragon's back breaking along with the spell. Cassandra watches as corded muscle and hardened scale return to pale skin and dark hair. Morrigan does not move. But she also cannot be protected, the Archdemon lands as well. Crippled but not dead. 

Cassandra does not know if the Witch lives. Instead, she must plunge her sword into the Archdemon's chest, twist her blade as it screams. It tries to crush her underfoot, but she aims her strike at its center, where its claws cannot turn inward to maim her. Dorian yells at the beast, trying to keep its attention. Fool. Brave. But he is a fool.

The dragon collapses and Cyprian is already running. Cassandra steps away just in time not to be crushed by the Archdemon's massive weight. She calls for Cyprian to stop. But he won't. Her feet are heavy, her armor and fatigue weigh her down. Cyprian is faster than she could have ever anticipated, running the stairs behind Coryphaeus. He ascends towards the Breach.

Cyprian holds his Anchored hand aloft as he runs. The green is so saturated, Cassandra cannot look directly at it. Instead she looks ahead to Coryphaeus, his twisted features afraid. A twin glow fills his ribs like a candle in a black cave, its brilliance magnified by the darkness that surrounds it. Cassandra realizes what Cyprian is doing. He is opening a new rift, one inside Coryphaeus' body. He is tearing the magister apart from the inside.

For a moment, she is horrified.

Coryphaeus breaks apart in wet chunks that quickly dry, shrivel, and split. Cyprian drops to his hands and knees, panting heavy breaths before collapsing entirely.

\--

Cyprian sleeps for eight weeks. 

He misses the celebrations in honor of his victory. He misses the departure of Morrigan and her son. He misses Cassandra offering her name for Election.

When he does wake, he asks first if they have won. They have. 

Second he asks for Kieran. When Cassandra tells him Morrigan is gone, Cyprian presses his lips into a thin line. His eyes grow glassy, but he says nothing more on the subject. Cassandra knows this is for the best. In time, Cyprian will know too.

Finally, he asks what is next. What work remains?

Cassandra smiles, tells him there are other rifts that still need closing, those who need their aid. The Inquisition is not finished. She sits on the edge of his sickbed, brushes back his curls, and kisses his forehead. He recoils slightly, because he is too old to be treated like such a child.

\--

Cassandra is elected Divine. She does not worry for the Inquisition. The last nine months she has spent criss-crossing Thedas with Cyprian at her side. The others rotate in and out, as matters demand their attention. But Cyprian has stood with her, from battle to diplomacy and back. So, she does not worry.

She waits for him in the gardens. She left him a scrawled note to meet her here.

Cyprian arrives dressed in a light tunic and dark breeches, his cloak over top of everything to keep out the chill. He is as tall as Cassandra now, with many inches left to spurt. The way he walks is gangly yet, but that too will change in time. 

When he stands before her, she doesn't touch his face. There are a few spots on his chin and forehead. 

There are those who will say it is too soon. Others believe this title should have been his from the beginning.

"They say you've been elected Divine," he speaks first. "But what does that really mean? Are you leaving us? Leaving me? I thought you liked it here? Liked being Inquisitor."

His forwardness no longer shocks her. "I will be Divine. I must go where I will best serve Thedas and the Maker."

"And where am I to go?"

"Where you may do the same, Inquisitor Trevelyan."

Cyprian turns fourteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that if you continue on to the epilogue (next in series) the story is rated explicit.


End file.
